


Male Fide

by xzombiexkittenx



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Crossdressing, Crossover, Duelling, Farce, M/M, POV Alternating, an elaborate Plan, too many people in one confessional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 68,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/pseuds/xzombiexkittenx
Summary: When the Cabal is rescued from slavery on a galley ship by the crew of the Pearl, a simple Plan is hatched: go to Spain, impersonate a dead nobleman and his entourage, steal everything that isn't nailed down, and escape before being caught. Of course, with half-cocked Jack Shaftoe in the mix, nothing is ever simple.Written in the style of the Baroque Cycle so prepare for some long, convoluted sentences and 'historickal' inaccuracy.(Written in 2010 and imported in 2019 for posterity)





	1. In Which is Demonstrated the Utility of Deliberate Ineptitude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Devastation of Southwark, 1683](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10679850) by [ImpOfPerversity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the Dark Ages, vivagloria and tessabeth of livejournal started a community dedicated to the extremely rare pair of Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, and Jack Shaftoe from the Baroque Cycle trilogy, by Neal Stephenson. [The community has been mostly moved now to the AO3 at ImpOfPerversity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity) and I thought I ought to add my own humble contribition to the madness.
> 
> My friend was my co-author for this fic but she does not have an AO3 account and does not want to be internet findable so cannot be tagged although I have her permission to repost. We wrote everything together, except for the porn, which was all me :D 
> 
> Do you need to have seen/read either franchise? I'd like to think no, but it would certainly clear a number of things up.

Jack Sparrow, indubitably Captain now, had been hoping —after the incident with being Undead, being (only technically, not actually, as Mr. Gibbs was so fond of reminding him every time he bragged) hanged, leaping inadvertently but with great gusto off a cliff, regaining control of his tragically leaderless ship, failing to extract any sort of fiscal enrichment from the twice-damnéd tease of a treasure trove known as the Isle de Muerte due to the ill-timed involvement of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and being chased out to sea till the point where, if celestial navigation served him, he was off the Canary Islands, which was quite the wrong side entirely of Neptune’s fair kingdom—to encounter alternative financial enrichment, hopefully in the form of poorly armed, poorly manned merchant ships, ideally of the Spanish, treasure-ship variety, or, failing that, any source of wealth at all so long as it carried no curses, pagan or otherwise. What he had _not_ been hoping to encounter was an heavily armed and highly bellicose pirate slave galley which was entirely committed, body and soul, to the task of plundering the holy hell out of his own vessel.

What, Jack Sparrow mused from his place at the helm, watching the aforementioned galley bear down on the _Pearl_ , which, with her uncommonly deep hull had the option of surrendering, running aground, or turning to fight a battle heavily weighted in favour of the faster, more maneuverable slave galley, were the fucking odds.

“Anamaria, hands to the starboard battery and make ready to come about,” Jack barked. The galley was coming at them at an exceptionally rapid pace and even without his glass, Jack could see the crew readying hooks and swords in to facilitate their imminent unwelcome presence aboard Jack’s beloved _Pearl_.

Before giving the order to load the cannons, Jack found himself embroiled in a knotty ethical dilemma, an unusual occurrence in the business of piracy, and it thus took a moment for him to decide whether or not it was justifiable to order his crew to riddle the lower oar deck with round shot. While it was assuredly the most effective way of preventing the galley from pursuing, or even fighting the _Pearl_ (due to the effect that great bloody holes in ones’ ship, as well as the deaths of ones’ means of propulsion traditionally had), the idea of slaughtering scores, if not hundreds of unfortunates whose only crime was to have been enslaved by the wrong people, caused Jack to feel an unfamiliar, but dimly recognizable niggle of guilt. 

Jack considered his options. If captured, he would likely find himself chained alongside said unfortunates, who would doubtless be inhospitably inclined towards a man who had only just stopped trying to tear them limb from limb with ammunition. He began to frame a thought that began with the phrase “and if I win,” and found that the sentence trailed off into a mess of “who the fuck do you think you’re fooling?” with a generous mixture of “in your bloody dreams mate, just look at the thing.” Best to assume the worst, he decided, and leave himself the option of later finding a way to free himself with the aid of fellow slaves who would have no reason to hate him or his crew. 

It was not that Jack was an uncommonly pessimistic sort of fellow. It was just that he had an odd, backwards sort of luck that meant while everything usually seemed to come out all right in the end, the interim was not always the most pleasant of times to be Jack Sparrow, viz. Barbossa and the _Pearl_ , Hanover and the Justice of the Peace, Cornwall and the Incident with the harvest, Matsu and the brothel…

“Grapeshot,” he ordered, “and fire on the up-roll.” While damage to the ship would be considerably less, he doubted the corsairs would look quite so formidable with their bodies torn apart by lead shot, and while it would by no means cripple the ship’s ability to give chase, it would certainly hinder their ability to inflict damage on Jack’s ship, crew, and corpus, if or when they caught the _Pearl_. Jack felt no qualms about the deaths and dismemberment of heavily armed men who, after all, intended to do very similar to him. 

The _Pearl_ ’s gun crews opened fire as the ship came about, unleashing a series of rolling, thunderous crashes, cloud upon cloud of malodorous, sulfurous smoke, and several hundred pounds worth of pebble-sized globes of metal. All very impressive, of course, but most of the shot flew high of its targets, simply tearing through line and sail, knocking off a few rather splendid hats, and murthering the odd tallish chap.

While the _Pearl_ ’s sailors hastily sponged, wormed, and reloaded their weapons, the oars of the corsair’s ship quickened, pulling her nearer the _Pearl_ , and her rudder shifted, preparatory to engaging in the classic and time-honored nautickal maneuver of crossing the T, a practice that brought the broadside of one ship, (the corsairs’) perpendicular to the stern of another (the _Pearl_ ’s), allowing them to essentially bugger the ship with an entire barrage’s worth of shot. Jack was rarely averse to an enthusiastic buggering on a private and personal level, but he did not relish the prospect of having his entire ship raped stern to stem, beginning at her rudder. The corsairs had evidently not appreciated the _Pearl_ ’s show of resistance.

“For what we are about to receive,” Jack heard young Jamie Martingale, mutter wryly from his station at the starboard rail gun, “may the Lord make us truly thankful,” and even Jack Sparrow was forced to admit that there was little to be done but await, and receive the oncoming broadside, recover, and hope that there were enough sailors left to fight when the foul-smelling smoke had blown on and the deadly splinters of rail and spar had ceased to fly.

The galley skimmed across the waves like a thousand-legged water beetle, its oars (for Jack refused to think of such an abomination of a vessel as “she”) moving with lash-induced synchronicity, until—in a stroke of unprecedented good fortune that bespoke a Providence infinitely more beneficent than Jack Sparrow had ever had reason to suppose presided over mortal and piratickal doings—abruptly they didn’t.

Moving with a new synchronicity, one born of rebellion rather than anticipation of knotted leather, a handful of the starboard sweeps suddenly moved in a direction opposite that of their fellows, causing a collision of wood, and, after a moment, a chaotic tangle as oars clashed together, one or two splintering or shearing off from the unaccustomed and unexpected impact. The galley banked abruptly, and turned, propelled by the currents, confusion, and the uninterrupted rowing of the port side, presenting her stern to the _Pearl_ ’s broadside. They were close enough that Jack could hear, but not understand, both furious and triumphant shouting vying to be heard on the oar deck.

“Get those guns reloaded,” Jack shouted, “and keep aiming high. We’ve friends below decks.”

*****

The Imp was crowing and cackling with glee in his ear, too excited to do more than leap up and down in an enraptured dance. The piece of wood in front of him had grown unaccountably heavy, and then unexpectedly violent, and was trying to wrench itself out of his grip. He braced himself for a beating that seemed oddly delayed, a state of affairs for which he was disinclined to complain, and loudly asked the Imp to kindly shut it, as he had urgent, albeit repetitive, business to see to, that was to say, the eternal moving back and forth of the wood in front of him, if only it would stop thrashing so, and the Other at his elbow stop grabbing and snatching at his arm. The Imp did not reply, save for more hooting and merry-making, but a Voice in his other ear, which had never had an Imp before, said, “For pity’s sake, Jack, stop rowing.” While the owner of the Voice remained a mystery, the command was both understandable and welcome, and he let his hands drop into his lap.

*****

Jack Sparrow had forgotten how horrific the odor of a galley could be, and even with the deck of the corsair ship awash in the viscera of its former owners and voluntary crew, he could smell the unmistakable reek of a hundred human beings forced to labor in filth until either the labor or the filth killed them. 

Anamaria had already armed herself with a hammer and chisel, and was headed below. Content the surviving corsairs were sufficiently disarmed, and under guard, Jack followed her, eager to meet the enterprising soul or souls responsible for the fortuitous confusion of oars that led to the corsairs’ defeat. 

On the oar deck, with the sulfurous smoke of the cannons still lingering in the air, the scene lacked only the addition of a reddish glow and an appropriate assortment of bat-winged, cloven-hoofed demons to make it a convincing portrayal of Hell. Jack could see that several of the slaves had died and were slumped over their oars, but the rest, all of whom were filthy, half-naked starvelings who, by the lengths of their matted hair and beards, had been in their current position for some several years at least, were watching him and Anamaria with a mixture of curiosity, trepidation, and hope.

“My name,” Jack announced in Spanish, assuming it was more likely that they would understand that than English, striding down the central aisle of the galley to stand in front of the drum and next to a terrified looking corsair who had his hands raised in surrender, “is Captain Jack Sparrow, of the pirate vessel the _Black Pearl_.” Jack waited a moment for the slaves to translate what he had said to one another, taking note of the many languages being spoken, but even when they had finished, none seemed to recognize the name of either himself or his ship, and Jack sighed in disappointment. “I don’t suppose,” he said to Anamaria, “that you would accept _this_ ship to settle our account?”

Anamaria laughed. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it so easily. You promised me two masts and forty guns, not a rotten tub full of half-dead men.”

“An excellent point,” Jack said. “We shall consider the debt still unsettled.” Once more addressing the crew in Spanish as Anamaria set about breaking their chains, Jack continued. “If someone could point me at the chaps who orchestrated some of the most horrifickally awful rowing I have ever had the pleasure of seeing in an enemy vessel, I would be much obliged.” 

Those who could understand immediately pointed to a bench where five men were sitting, four of whom were looking as though they would have been triumphantly slapping each other on the backs had the skin not been so recently whipped off them. Though none of them could stand, Anamaria having not yet reached them with her instruments of Liberation, one of them sat up a little straighter, and lifted his be-yarmulked head. 

“I believe it is myself and my companions to whom you refer,” the Jew said in Spanish. He looked as though he was going to say something else, but Anamaria knelt down to unchain him, and he stopped, gazing at her in apparent rapture. “Dear lady,” he said, “prior to this moment I had thought that after four or five years of being chained to this Wretched Oar, no sight in this world could be more welcome or exquisite than that of freedom. In seeing your face, I find myself most joyfully corrected.” 

An awkward pause followed, during which Anamaria, with a flushed, and somewhat bemused expression on her face, bent over her task, and broke open the lock on the chains. Jack smiled to himself at the man’s impudence, and walked over to shake him by the hand. The calluses on said appendage were even thicker than that of any sailor, giving credence to his story that he had been a slave for four or five years.

“I can think of any number of things that might have gone wrong with the Plan you designed and executed,” Jack said. “I might have sunk you, for example. Or, with this ship distracted, I might simply have fled, leaving you and your compatriots in the hands of disappointed and angry corsairs. Not mentioning that my own ship has sweeps, and everything else having gone my way, what would have prevented me from transferring you from these Wretched Oars to my own?” 

The Jew’s smile faded, and he tried to withdraw his hand, which Jack was still holding amicably. 

“I’m not going to,” Jack assured him. “I bring it up merely to express my admiration of your heroically-sized testicles. Metaphorickally, of course, not physickally. I am, in fact, going to offer you and your companions—” he gestured to the rest of the bench, on which sat a short, red-headed man, who had been listening with an intense and furious expression, but little comprehension, a man of the Asiatic persuasion, with an incongruous and large wooden cross about his neck, a middle-aged Spaniard, whose face, though smiling, was twitching spasmodically, and a gaunt fellow with straw-colored hair, who merely sat in silence, staring blankly at the oar, even when Anamaria unchained him— “employment aboard my ship. I can promise you that, as my crew is comprised mainly of lazy bastards such as myself, and we’ve nowhere in particular we need to be, we rarely row.”

“A moment,” the Jew said, and then conferred with his companions, in a dialect that Jack had recently heard called Sabir, but did not understand. The red-headed man exploded into furious Dutch, and spat on the deck at Jack’s feet, and then at the feet of his companions for good measure. The Oriental bowed deeply to Jack, as did the Spaniard, whose movements would not have looked out of place at a royal court, had his face not continued to twitch at intervals. Then at a look from the Jew, the Oriental put his hand over the Spaniard’s mouth. “My name is Moseh de la Cruz,” the Jew said. “I will come with you.”

“An unusual, and, one might say, theologically puzzling name,” Jack said.

The Spaniard said something, but it was muffled by the firm hand over his lips. 

Moseh assumed an expression of theatrickal surprise. “Is it?” he asked. “How remiss have been all of my past acquaintances, for none of them saw fit to mention it.” He continued: “Van Hoek, I regret to say, is loathe to sail on your side of the law, but myself and my other companions,” he indicated them in turn, “Gabriel Goto, Excellentissimo Domino Jeronimo Alejandro Peñasco de Halcones Quinto, Marchioni de Azuaga et de Hornachos, Comiti de Llerena, Barcarrota, et de Jerez de los Caballeros, Vicecomiti de Llera, Entrín Alto y Bajo, et de Cabeza del Buey, Baroni de Barrax, Baza, Nerva, Jadraque, Brazatortas, Gargantiel, et de Val de las Muertas, Domino Domus de Atalaya, Ordinis Equestris Calatravae Beneficiario de la Fresneda, and Jack Shaftoe, would be delighted to accept your offer.” 

Now Jack looked properly at the silent wretch called Shaftoe, who still had not moved. Shaftoe continued to stare vacantly at his oar, and he was now muttering to himself. Mad as a hatter, Jack thought, utterly absent from the present world, and off elsewhere. 

“Hold up,” Jack said. “Grateful as I am for your assistance, I have no need on my ship for a man so clearly unable to pull his weight, so to speak." 

Before Moseh could reply, Jack turned to the rest of the ex-galley slaves. "Any man here who wishes to join my esteem'd company, and can persuade me of his usefulness, is invited to speak up now. As far as the rest of you are concerned," Jack continued, "you may keep this boat to do with what you will. It's still seaworthy, so you should be able to row yourselves home if that is your wish."

Jack ended up signing a handful of men who claimed to have sailing experience and turning down the services of a man called Dappa who said he was a linguist, but was unable to answer to Jack when asked what in Hell Jack would need a linguist for.

They were preparing to leave, the ex-slaves forming themselves into a workable crew under Van Hoek, when Moseh came up to Jack, towing Shaftoe behind him. Shaftoe was docile enough and would go where he was directed but Moseh had to keep hold of him or he would wander off.

"I have been chained to this man for three or four years," Moseh said, "and I do not feel I can abandon him at this late a date. He did, after all, help on the oar," he added, optimistically.

Jack prodded Shaftoe with one grimy finger and Shaftoe muttered something about King Looie being more than welcome to do something that Jack didn't quite catch but gathered was vaguely obscene. "He's no use to me," Jack declared, "or to you for that matter, so I suggest you leave him here."

“He doesn’t eat much,” Moseh said. “He’ll do as he’s told, stay out of the way, and won’t ask to be paid. On top of that, he’s a font of interesting stories that only begin to become repetitive after the eighth or ninth telling of them, which ought to occur sometime during the third year of your acquaintance.” When Jack continued to frown at Moseh in a skeptical sort of way, the Jew added, with a guilty glance at Shaftoe, “If nothing else, he can row.” 

Jack heaved a sigh, and decided that he was a saintly individual, with God-like benevolence and far too much tolerance. “Very well,” he said. “You may bring the madman. One more lunatick aboard should scarcely be noticeable with this crew, anyway.”


	2. In Which Alterations Are Made

Someone was praying in Latin. He recognized it as a Catholic funeral service, and spared a moment of pity for the poor, dead bastard, whoever he was. When he opened his eyes, he realized his head, and indeed the rest of his body, was wrapped in coarse, white cloth, and it struck him that he was in a shroud of some kind, which meant that _he_ was the poor, dead bastard. This was odd, because he wasn’t a Papist, or, he thought, dead. He sat up, which wasn’t enough to rip through the rough cloth, but it prompted a good deal of comment, and finally some assistance. Some Good Samaritan cut through the stitching with a knife and pulled the sail-cloth, for that is what it was, away from his head and shoulders so he could get his arms and torso free. 

“Jack!” the Good Samaritan exclaimed. “You’re alive!”

It seemed a rather obvious sort of comment to Jack, which he supposed must be his name, but the man’s present astuteness demanded the question of why in holy fuck they hadn’t realized that before sewing him into a shroud. Since Jack had no idea where he was, who his companions were, or what was going on—all obvious sorts of questions as well—he imagined it might not be wise to start casting aspersions on those who were not immediately aware of the obvious. At least, not right away. Instead of replying, since the statement as to his vivacity seemed to have been more an observation than an inquiry, Jack looked about himself, and realized several things at once. The first was that it was fucking hot out, the temperature made worse by the fact that he was on a ship, sitting on black-painted planks that were hot enough to be painful on his arse and thighs, even through trousers and shroud; the second was that there was a multi-ethnic quartet that looked pleased enough to see him, including the Good Samaritan, but the third was that the rest of the crew that Jack could see looked exceedingly hostile, and were displaying an impressive collection of armaments; and the fourth, final, and most welcome fact was that he no longer appeared to be rowing, something he was dimly aware that he had been doing for longer than he would have liked. 

“At what particular point in my narratives,” a man said, “did I indicate that I _enjoyed_ having the unnaturally undead aboard my ship?” It was difficult to notice much about the speaker’s appearance, as Jack’s view was obscured by the muzzle of the pistol that the man was pointing at him. Looking past the gun, which took a great deal of effort on Jack’s part, as it was cocked, steady, and very demanding of his attention, Jack saw a beard braided into twin plaits, from which dangled several beads hanging under a mouth filled with uneven and gilded teeth, set in a face that was demonstrating an expression of rage quite unlike anything Jack could recollect in his immediate past (the rest of it was coming back to him in bits and pieces, and he was relieved to know that this sort of odd occasion was fairly run of the mill for him). “I’m sure you were all paying full mind to the ship’s articles when they were read out, gentlemen,” the man continued, his aim with the pistol not wavering for a moment, “which means that you all heard Rule Number Three: All undead, moonlight-activated or otherwise, with the sole and unique exception of the simian personage known as Jack the Monkey, are expressly prohibited.”

“As far as that goes,” Jack said, clambering slowly to his feet, “I am, as the Chinaman said, alive. Not undead, which is something I reckon I’d know if I was, unless some linguistic distinction escapes me.” 

There was a stunned pause, and the man with the pistol lowered his weapon slightly. “I’m from Nippon,” said the Chinaman, but he was mostly drowned out by the observation, made by a Jew, that Jack was not only alive, but notably coherent, rational, and present of mind. 

“Not to sound ignorant,” Jack said, “but where the fuck am I?” The only thing Jack could see was bright blue sky, broken by mares’ tails and a white-topped blue sea which meant absolutely bugger all other than that he was in the middle of bleeding nowhere.

There followed a good deal of explaining, disarming, getting back to work of the crew, and introductions. As it turned out, he was one Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds, L’Emmedeur, Ali Zybec, and (as men of the same name on a ship (or most places) often acquired nicknames, and the captain of this ship, the _Black Pearl_ was called Jack Sparrow, Jack Shaftoe had picked up a new appellation) Mad Jack, a nickname that his companions assured him that he had earned over the past few years. His missing years sounded incredibly dull—rowing, raving, and growing a beard seemed to have been his chief occupations—but after being rescued, he had promptly shown signs of having le sweat anglais, and then of having died of it; dropping on the deck of the _Pearl_ and roasting in the sun for several hours before anyone took notice. Now that he was both Not Dead and Mostly Sane, the high fever having apparently cured him of the French Pox, Jack found himself being dragged into a Plan.

*****

Jack Sparrow, Anamaria, Moseh, Jeronimo, Gibbs, Martingale, and Jack Shaftoe convened in the great-cabin to discuss said Plan, which had apparently changed slightly now Jack could reasonably be a part of it.

“It’s quite simple,” Moseh said, a statement which Jack, despite having no real memory of his several years’ acquaintance with the man, implicitly distrusted. “We were sailing towards the Caribbean with the idea that we would find a way of distracting the British Navy from their task of guarding a massive treasure currently on an island. However, en route (as the French say) we came across and attacked a Spanish ship.”

“In quite a spectacular show of tactics, technique, and seamanship,” Sparrow added. He appeared relaxed but he was watching Jack closely, as though expecting him to do something untrustworthy, or undeadish. “We took her, plundered her etcetera.”

Jack, who had been examining the great-cabin, spared a moment to wonder how a ship with such an enormous arse managed to plunder anything at all.

“We discovered that one of the men killed in battle was a baron,” Moseh continued. “He was on his way to his motherland for the first time, having been raised in his family’s estate in the Americas. He was also bringing with him a Dutch woman he recently married, but she had died of a fever a few days before we attacked.”

“I don’t see that a Spanish baron’s misfortunes are any concern of mine, especially now that he’s dead,” Jack said. “Incidentally, where is this ship?”

“Bound for Europe,” Sparrow said, which meant absolutely nothing since by that token they could be in the New World, the Indies or anywhere between for all Jack knew. “Now it was a day or so after we had left the ship to flounder her way back to her Caribbean home port,” Sparrow continued, “that Mr. de la Cruz came to me with an outlandish, audacious and utterly wonderful Plan.”

“The gist of it is,” Moseh said, with a modest nod that betrayed entirely just how pleased with himself he was, “that since we have all of his papers and most of his effects, there is no one to stop any one of us claiming to be he.”

Jack Shaftoe said nothing, since he thought he could see where the Plan was going. Then a problem occurred to him. “I think I understand, though I am but a recently insane, illiterate Vagabond,” Jack said, “but I have to say that not one of you are Spanish baron material.”

Jeronimo leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Listen you misbegotten peasant, while your brain was rotting from the Pox you doubtlessly deservedly acquired from one of your mother’s collegues, that is to say: a cheap whore, it was explained to you in your own filthy tongue that I am a marquis and outrank the dead whorson as the yard of an Arabian stallion outranks your own,” Jeronimo explained patiently.

Sparrow nodded sagely. “Exactly,” he said.

Jack had had the nature of Jeronimo’s demon explained to him and had thought of it as being akin to his own Imp of the Peverse but now, on the receiving end of the demon’s commentary, he could see that it was quite a less subtle force for mischief, though he could not help admitting that he quite liked its turn of phrase. “That’s all very well,” Jack said, “but what has your Plan got to do with me?”

“Keep your britches on,” Anamaria said. “Let them explain.”

“We’re going to bandage Jeronimo’s jaw shut so he will be unable to speak,” Moseh said. “He and I are working out a system of signs so he will be able to speak through me, using only his hands.”

“In order to justify Jeronimo’s liquidating the entire estate and loading the profits onto the _Pearl_ , I,” Sparrow said, looking rather imp-ridden and gleeful at the thought, “am going to pose as his priest, a converted Indian from the Americas. To that end, Mr. Goto is teaching me to sound as Jesuit as possible and we will all be receiving lessons on how to act Catholic.”

It was all starting to sound rather tedious to Jack who had never had any desire to educate himself and certainly not religiously. “And how is turning papist going to enrichen us?” he asked.

Anamaria squinted at Jack as though he was a blithering idiot. “We just told you,” she said. “By liquidating the entire estate on the pretense that the money will be used in Captain Sparrow’s parish back in the Americas. It won’t be,” she added sarcastically. “We’ll divide it into shares and the majority of it will be spent on whores and drink, the rest will likely go to gaming.”

Jack opened his mouth to offer further comment but Moseh cut him off. “Peace, Jack,” he said. “All will be explained anon. I will be posing as a translator and Anamaria will be an enslaved lady’s maid.”

“Hold,” Jack said suspiciously. “Who is to be the lady, if not Anamaria?”

“Originally, Martingale,” Sparrow said, gazing with a paternal fondness at the young man. “As talented as Anamaria is, I feel that playing a Dutch woman may be a touch out of her range.”

“Unfortuately,” Moseh said, “Martingale has a similar problem, viz his colouring and complexion.”

“And the fact that the boy can’t keep his legs together,” Sparrow said. Martingale flushed but did not argue.

“Jack—” Moseh began.

Jack glanced down at his skin which was pale from rowing out of the sun for years and at the shock of blond hair that had escaped from its queue. Had the Imp, he wondered, been whispering in the ears of all those assembled, or were they simply naturally mad in their own right? "No,” Jack said.

“Anamaria will teach you how to behave like a lady,” Sparrow said, as though Jack had not spoken.

“No,” Jack said again, louder.

“As everyone there will believe you only speak Dutch you won’t have to talk to anyone directly,” Moseh said.

“No!” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “Anyway, I don’t speak Dutch.”

“Neither, I should think, will anyone else there you’ll be likely to meet,” Sparrow said.

“You said she’d died,” Jack said, “why not keep her that way?”

“Adds verisimilitude,” Sparrow said placidly. “And it gives Anamaria an in. Under the pretext of running errands she can smuggle messages and smaller valuables to the _Pearl_.”

It was, Jack thought, the most ridiculous, doomed-to-failure Plan that he had ever heard of. He wanted to use that as an argument against his involvement in the endeavor, but the Imp wanted to describe said plot as cunning and an adventure and a good idea. “Bugger it,” Jack said, before whatever sense of self-preservation he had could get in the way. “I’m in.”

*****

“Over the next few weeks,” Jack said to Shaftoe, “you will be on light duty. Learn from Anamaria, stay out of the sun and try to de-callus your hands. Above all, practice wearing that.”

Both Jacks and Jamie Martingale were on the quarterdeck in the shade of the mizzens’l. Jack was lounging against the railing, watching Martingale pin Shaftoe into one of the dead Dutchwoman’s dresses.

“Ouch,” Shaftoe said.

“Sorry.” Martingale’s voice was muffled by the layers of petticoats he currently had his head covered by. “Anamaria’s better at this but she’s getting reading lessons from Moseh.”

“Are we all supposed to be literate during this Plan?” Shaftoe asked, aghast.

“Not at all Mr. Shaftoe,” Jack said. “Only Anamaria so she can read the notes we will inevitably pass back and forth. We felt you had quite enough to learn between Catholicism and femininity.” Jack himself was not literate but the Plan did not require him to be, so long as he kept in regular contact with Moseh and Jeronimo. Shaftoe did not need to be literate either as Anamaria would be (hopefully) proficient enough to receive the messages from the menfolk to the ladies. She also outranked Shaftoe and Shaftoe would be following her orders in any case, so better she should get her commands directly from Jack.

Martingale emerged from under Shaftoe’s skirts and the three stood for a moment studying the loose, dimpling cloth in front of Shaftoe’s chest.

“We’ll need something for bosoms,” Martingale said.

“Otherwise it looks lovely,” Jack said. The dress was unflattering at best, and absurd at worst. It was the sort of dowdy, practical style favored by married Dutchwomen; functional, but unattractive, made of a severely dark, hard-wearing material, with a high neckline and full skirts intended to obscure even the notion of the existence of feminine legs anywhere beneath. Which was just as well, Jack decided. A dress designed to flaunt feminine attributes would make the patent un-femininity of its wearer that much more difficult to disguise.

“I can’t breathe in this corset,” Shaftoe announced.

“You’ll learn,” Jack said confidently. “Girls as young as six do it, or so I’m told. And if you can’t, you’ll manage.”

Martingale began helping Shaftoe out of the dress so he could make permanent the alterations he had pinned in. Jack regarded Shaftoe as the man wriggled out of the overdress and layers of petticoats. Now that he had tidied himself up and was compos mentis enough for conversation and to demonstrate humour and a sense of adventure, Jack Shaftoe was not half bad looking. Now that he was no longer rowing, Shaftoe had begun to regain the flesh that years of slavery had robbed him of. Jack was certain that what was now a decent enough arse would be breathtaking, given a few more weeks of rest and good food. He had heard the tale of Shaftoe’s Loss and found himself perversely interested in what might or might not be possible with such remnants of a member. He told himself to put such curiosity out of his mind. Remember the eunuch of Calcutta, he thought, and the hours of frustration _that_ incident involved. Not to mention the chafing. 

Perhaps Shaftoe had read his thoughts, or perhaps Jack had let his gaze linger longer than he had thought on Shaftoe’s promising buttocks, strong thighs and muscular (under the scarring) back, but Shaftoe was scowling at him suspiciously.

“I was in the Caribee once,” Shaftoe said, “and I have had my fill of having to fend off randy buccaneers. I’m in this dress so the Plan will work, not so’s you can stare at me.”

Jack winked at him and walked off to receive his Jesuit lessons from Gabriel.

*****

Jack Shaftoe tore his gaze away from the retreating, sashaying form of Sparrow. He could not recall having ever seen a man walk that way before. Or, for that matter, many women. 

Jamie Martingale smoothed the dress that he was holding. “He’s not so easy to fend off,” he remarked in tones that suggested that he himself had not tried particularly hard.

Jack stared at him, vaguely horrified; he’d just had this man’s head up his skirts.

Jamie flushed again, unhappily gathering up the last of the petticoats. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I like my men complete and capable.” Jack wasn’t certain if he ought to be relieved or insulted. “The Captain though,” Martingale continued, walking away, “has been known to try anything once.” Jack decided he was definitely leaning towards insulted.


	3. In Which Crosses Are Bourne

Several weeks’ sailing had been ample time, or so it seemed to Jack Sparrow, for both Anamaria and Jamie Martingale to develop a rather intense dislike of one Jack Shaftoe. The former, because Shaftoe made a terrible woman and an even worse student. He was insufferable when he made a mistake and had to be corrected, and even more so when he got a thing right. Jamie’s dislike of Shaftoe were for reasons of his own that Jack had yet to discover, but Shaftoe disliked Jamie right back. Since it was no business of Jack’s and gave the impression of being more a vague enmity than a burgeoning blood-feud, Jack paid it no mind.

Whatever the opinions of his first mate and Mr. Martingale, Jack found he liked Shaftoe more with each encounter. To that end he began contriving reasons to spend time with Shaftoe, which led to more time spent together etcetera etcetera in a perpetuating cycle that, Jack felt, if carried to its logical conclusion, could only end well.

He and Shaftoe were currently sitting on the deck; Shaftoe in a dress stitching up a sail on the grounds that it would help him appear as though he could do needlepoint. Jack was amusing himself by doing sleight of hand with a bit of bright coin so it caught the light but every time Shaftoe looked over it was vanished up Jack’s sleeve. While Shaftoe was cursing at and sticking himself with a needle, Moseh and Anamaria were having a different sort of lesson, bent over a horn-book by the leeward rail. Anamaria’s hair was down and it blew out over the book. Moseh tucked it behind her ear for her.

Shaftoe jerked his head in their direction. “At least one of you lot is getting somewhere,” he said.

While Jack’s flirting had become something of a joke between he and Shaftoe, Jack had no idea what he was talking about. “Hey?” Jack said intelligently.

“Anamaria appears to have been more successful in her conquest than you,” Shaftoe elaborated. When Jack made an encouraging ‘carry on’ gesture, Shaftoe raised his eyebrows in amazement. “Moseh,” he said, “and Anamaria. Or did you really think they needed four or five hours a day and so much privacy for reading?”

Jack’s first reaction was to assume that Shaftoe’s brain remained Pox-addled but he realized that Shaftoe was right and between keeping his ship running, making sure the Plan was going according to, and his interest in Shaftoe, he had missed it utterly. “Fancy that,” Jack remarked. “I suppose these things are in the air, spring and such. Which is odd, as it’s nearly autumn.”

“What do you mean, ‘in the air?’” Shaftoe asked. “If you’re referring to me—” 

“Not at all,” Jack said. “I’m sure you remain immune to the lure of both springtime and such. I was referring to the other romance aboard ship.

“Really?” Shaftoe asked casually, but with an edge of fascinated disgust. He stabbed at the sailcloth. “Who?” and then muttered, “Shut up,” to his left shoulder.

Jack ignored the off behavior. “Jeronimo and Jamie Martingale,” he said as though the point was obvious.

Shaftoe’s needle froze mid-air. “You’re having me on,” he said.

Jack flipped the bit of coin the moment Shaftoe looked away from him. “On the contrary. I happened to overhear Jeronimo regaling our Mr. Martingale with a tale of the ancients. He was likening this ship to the ship of the myrmidons, and Jamie to Patroclus. I did not stay to eavesdrop, but I gather he himself was Achilles.”

“Think I saw that in a play once,” Shaftoe said doubtfully. “Is the gist that buggery is occurring?”

Jack shrugged. “Possibly,” he said. “I’m not certain it’s progressed that far. You may be more interested to know that Jeronimo’s speech was remarkably unimpeded by profanity. Jamie confided to me that when they are alone together, Jeronimo’s demon is silent.”

Shaftoe was also silent, splitting his attention between his needlework and the air over his left shoulder. Jack fiddled with his coin and watched Anamaria and Moseh out of the corner of his eye. He was annoyed that he had missed the burgeoning romance so utterly. Jack liked Moseh well enough, and Anamaria could take care of herself but he decided that he would have a word with Moseh nevertheless. It wasn’t idle curiosity or nosiness, Jack thought. He would simply be making sure, as a good captain ought, that his ship would continue running smoothly and that Moseh was good enough for Anamaria.

Shaftoe’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, trapping the coin between thumb and forefinger. “Eureka. As Homer would say,” Shaftoe said, grinning widely. 

For a split second Jack’s mind managed to convince him that Shaftoe had grabbed his hand for another reason altogether and he mustered a disappointed smile to go with Shaftoe’s triumphant laughter. Against all odds, Shaftoe noticed Jack’s reaction and his smile dimmed, though he didn’t let go of Jack’s wrist, the peeling calluses of his palm and fingers rough against Jack’s skin. Jack felt his own pulse beat against Shaftoe’s hand and he gently and reluctantly pulled his wrist out of Shaftoe’s grip.

Shaftoe busied himself with his sewing. “Eliza was a magnificent seamstress,” Shaftoe said, half to himself. “She could’ve taught me this.”

Jack wished that Shaftoe had forgotten Eliza as he had forgotten his years rowing. He also wished that Eliza, wherever she was, would fall into an open sewer. “She sounds an accomplished woman,” he said aloud.

“Mm,” Shaftoe said and seemed as though he would launch into a tale of her accomplishments but Jack cut him off.

“I hear you were much taken with the tricks she learned from a Book of India,” Jack said.

“Last time I spent,” Shaftoe said without any particular resentment. “Not likely to happen again either.”

It was Jack’s turn to say, “Mm.”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said, thoughtfully, as though it was only just occurring to him. “She was an accomplished woman, but not, I am certain, uniquely so.” Before Shaftoe could ask for clarification or declare he didn’t want to know, Jack pressed on. “Ignorant though I am of Books of India, I have performed that trick myself on more than one occasion.”

Shaftoe grimaced. “No thanks,” he said.

“I just hate to see a friend in need,” Jack said placidly. “And, just so as to avoid any misconception, I meant to say that I could do so using only the bodily members that Miss Eliza had at her disposal.” He paused again, for effect. “Well, perhaps also members that she did have, but did not deign to apply to the task.” Jack got up, slapping Shaftoe on the shoulder in a manly sort of way. “Think on it,” he said. “If you change your mind my accomplishments are here for the asking.” He called out to Moseh who was still loitering by the leeward rail, “Mr. de la Cruz, I would like to see you in my cabin at your earliest possible convenience,” and headed that way without looking back.

*****

As Moseh went to Sparrow’s cabin, Jack gave him a sympathetic look and made a great show of returning to his sewing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about it at all, but he couldn’t help categorizing parts that Sparrow had that Eliza had and parts they shared that she might have used, but hadn’t. In all honesty, Jack’s memory of the event was not as vivid as he might have wished, after so many years, but he knew certainly that the only appendage Eliza had used was one, perfect, white hand (her left, the one used in the Orient for unclean things) which left an awful lot of shared members to which Sparrow might be referring.

 _His right hand Jack my Jack_ the Imp said. _His clever conjurer’s hands and his strong sailor’s fingers_

“Shut up,” Jack said, for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour.

 _Or his mouth_ the Imp said, leaping about. _What mightn’t he do with that, hm?_

“Christ Jesus,” Jack said. The Imp fell over it was laughing so hard, since Jack’s eminently unhelpful imagination had supplied him with a very graphic image of what the Imp was alluding to.

 _Why just fingers my Jack why only them? Why not all of him, his hands, an’ mouth an’ all, O’ Jack, an’ he could, your Jack, with his whole gleaming, glittering self an’—_

“He doesn’t glitter,” Jack said, annoyed. “That was the coin. And his teeth. And yes, I’m sure he could.”

 _Could what, Jack?_ the Imp asked innocently. _Could—?_

Jack could only assume it was the Imp’s fault that he was imagining Jack Sparrow naked. “I’m sure I don’t know,” Jack said.

 _I’m sure you do_ the Imp said and promptly disappeared.

Jack glanced up to see a very disturbed-looking Moseh exiting the great-cabin and then back down at his sewing and made one last determined effort to focus, the hem of his skirts fluttering in the breeze.

*****

Jack Sparrow was sitting down with Gabriel who was drilling him on the proper procedure for giving Confession and rating his performance in assigning penance when Anamaria burst into the great-cabin and, with a pointed look in Gabriel’s direction, sent the Jesuit on his way.

“Yes?” Jack said.

Anamaria looked as though she wanted to slap him, a habit he thought she had broken. “What did you say to Moseh?” she demanded.

“I wouldn’t say I _said_ anything in particular,” Jack said, smoothing his moustache. “I simply asked him what his intentions were vis a vis my first mate, that is to say, you. We had what might be termed a back and forth discussion on the command structure of this ship, his position as a newcomer and yours as first mate. But no, casting my mind back, I do not believe I _said_ anything to him.”

“Did you, or did you not,” Anamaria said, “tell Moseh that were he to, and I quote, ‘abandon, abuse, disappoint, take advantage of or otherwise mistreat’ me in any way you would, and I quote, ‘leave him in a state where he would be fit only to gaze upon the contents of Jack Shaftoe’s breeches in mournful envy?”

“Ah,” said Jack. “I may have said that.”

Anamaria glared at him for another moment, sighed and slumped resignedly into one of his chairs. “Try not to frighten him off,” she said. “I actually like him.”

Jack maintained a captainly composure. “One should be careful, especially if one is an office, of hob knobbing with the foremast hands.”

Anamaria got up again. “You’re one to talk,”

*****

Prior to arriving at Puerto Mentirosos, the _Pearl_ underwent a transformation, disguising her figurehead, painting over her name and rerigging everything so the slant of her masts and her sailplan was different. Her crew underwent a similar transformation, tidying themselves so as to appear, if not respectable, than at least not thoroughly disreputable. Brands and cropped ears were covered, cannons were concealed, and Jack Shaftoe was stuffed into That Wretched Dress (as he had begun calling any one of the dresses that he was forced to wear). Anamaria had judged Jack unfit for introduction to court and Sparrow had agreed after Jack had thoroughly failed to perform up to their, in Jack’s opinion, overly exacting standards.

“We’ll simply say she caught some tropical disease,” Sparrow said. “That way Shaftoe can be cloistered and a doctor can be bribed I’m sure until Anamaria has made him even remotely passable.”

Jack scowled. “It wasn’t that bad,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” Sparrow said, “but it must be perfect and the way you keep tugging at that corset, as though you had never worn one before, will not pass muster. So stop it. I certainly would not envy your position if you were discovered.” He turned to Moseh and smiled. “Would you? Envy him?”

“No sir,” Moseh said. He had cut his forelocks off and was wearing a large cross. “And I don’t intend to.”

“What?” Jack said.

“Keep your back straight,” Anamaria said, “and push your chest out.”

“I can’t do both,” Jack complained, promptly forgetting about Moseh and Sparrow.

Jack spent the remainder of the day practicing looking femininely ill. By the time they reached the harbor he could convince anyone who didn’t actually know him that he was ailing under some nameless tropical illness. 

Anamaria had altered one of the Dutchwoman’s dresses so it was a convincingly plain servant’s outfit. Jeronimo was wearing an outlandishly fashionable silk waistcoat and frock coat, and was standing with the bandages for his throat (which matched, in color, the fabric of his waistcoat) in one hand while he bid Jamie Martingale goodbye. Jack didn’t recognize the classical allusion that Jeronimo was using, but Jamie seemed to, judging by his blush and all the rapt attention he was giving to the activity of his toe in the seam of the deck. As Jack drew closer he heard Martingale say he would wait as faithfully as Penelope.

“And I, like Odysseus, will return to you,” Jeronimo said. “And I will write you often.”

“’Cept Odysseus didn’t write,” Jack interrupted. “Seems to me he was too busy fucking every goddess from Troy to Ithaca to bother. And seamstress though Martingale may be, I doubt the _Pearl_ needs a tapestry, finished or unfinished.” Jack had seen a rendition of the adventures of Odysseus in a brothel in Paris. It was the sort of education he didn’t mind receiving.

Jeronimo startled and turned around. “In social situations raised above the level of dogs a simple ‘we are about to embark’ would have fucking sufficed, you obnoxious bastard, as tactless as you are prickles and, in addition, breathe a word of what you have just heard to any one aboard this worm-ridden hulk, or even replay this scene in your memory and I can promise to do things to you that would make Torquemada himself look away in amazement, horror and disgust.”

Martingale put a hand on Jeronimo’s arm. “What he means, Jack,” Martingale said, “is that you could have just said we were ready to leave. And that this is none of your fucking business.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I got that, thanks,” he said.

“And stop tugging at that corset,” Martingale snapped. “If you get them caught _I_ will gut you myself.”

Jack Sparrow emerged from the great-cabin which halted all conversation. His hair was loose and he had taken out all the gew-gaws that he’d had in it, but otherwise it was still a tangled disaster. His usual costume had been traded for the high collar and black cassock of the Jesuits and he had the largest cross Jack had ever seen off a steeple around his neck.

“The decision has been made,” Sparrow announced, “that as a converted heathen, I, as Samson, will leave my hair as God intended it. I will say I took an oath.” He lifted the cross slightly and let it drop back against his chest. “This thing is like a bloody door-knocker,” he said.

“Don’t play with it,” Jack said, “looks as though you’ve never worn one before.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sparrow said.

“Is this one of your moonlight skeleton stories,” Jack asked wearily.

“As it happens, no,” Sparrow said. “It’s more of a ‘there are two prominent English nobles who are not, as they believe, legally wed’ sort of story. Are we all ready to go?”

“One more thing,” Anamaria said. She handed Sparrow a small cloth bag and then distributed the same to Moseh, Jeronimo and Jack. “Hold onto these,” she said.

Sparrow obediently looped it around his neck and tucked it under his cassock. Moseh followed suit but Jeronimo, halfway through the process of binding his jaw shut, did not.

“What is it?” Jack asked, trying to open it.

Anamaria slapped his hand away, hard, took the bag from him and tied the strings around his neck herself. “It’s a gris-gris,” she said.

“Voudou magic,” Sparrow elaborated, helping Jeronimo with the bandages before the talk of heathen gods could prompt him to offer commentary and spoil all the progress he’d made. “For protection and success.”

Mr. Gibbs who had been waiting to see them off, crossed himself. “No good ever came of witchcraft,” he said darkly.

Gabriel Goto nodded. “I cannot advise against this enough, both on a spiritual and practical level. May I remind you that the Inquisition is still in operation and that it frowns upon witchcraft.”

Sparrow tied off Jeronimo’s bandage and put the gris-gris around the Spaniard’s neck himself, with stern orders to leave it there since both he and Anamaria outranked him and, besides, Jeronimo was an atheist anyway, so why did he care? And Anamaria added, “So keep them hidden, it ain’t as though any of us are what we’re claiming to be anyway. And don’t call it witchcraft or I’ll tell Tia Dalma you said so.”

Gibbs crossed himself again and walked away, muttering about ill-fortune and curses.

Gabriel shook his head. “I would off you all a blessing but I fear it wouldn’t stand a chance and you are not supposed to test God. So I wish you good luck instead.”

 _Magic and mischief_ the Imp said, tugging at the curls pinned into Jack’s hair. _And madness, madness and mischief and O’ Jack what fun it will be._


	4. In Which Complications Arise

Though he was currently pretending to be a priest, and therefore such things should be beneath his notice, Jack Sparrow could not help but observe—with the part of his brain that was not busy cataloguing the obscene amount of gold and jewels that fair dripped off everyone and everything save their party—that Shaftoe made a very homely woman. Not ugly, precisely, but neither one who would merit a second, or even a lingering first glance in the street. The efforts to make him look deathly ill were not working in his favour, as far as beauty was concerned, but even had his hair not been hanging in lank curls and his face as pale as lack of sun and bleaching with lemon juice could make it, his jaw was too square, his nose too solid and there was a slight shadow of blonde hair on his upper lip that would not go away. All of which combined to make him, as Jack had thought, homely. At best.

Jack realized he was being introduced to the court and stepped up. No one on the crew had known how a priest ought to bow to a Spanish monarch but he was supposed to be a savage anyway and Moseh had been to a play the night before and was fairly certain he’d got it, so Jack could only assume that the elaborate obecience he was making would suffice.

“It is both an honour and a privilege to meet your most Catholic majesties,” Jack said in an accent that was one part Hindoostan, one part Manhatto, and one part Carib, with an Irish lilt thrown in for good measure, inadvertently cutting off the man who had been introducing them. Jack made another bow and backed up apologetically, treading on Moseh’s foot in the process.

The monarch greeted them in high-flung Castillian Spanish which Moseh then ostensibly translated into Dutch for Shaftoe. He actually used English slang and cant with a Dutch accent and did not tell Shaftoe that Their Majesties were pleased to welcome back the good baron and his lovely wife, and hoped for her recovery. Instead, he told Shaftoe to stop fidgeting with the hairpiece before it came off, damn you. Shaftoe whispered back something that Moseh translated as grateful thanks and loyalty to the Spanish crown but what was, in fact, an invitation for Moseh to go to Hell in the same slang and with the same Dutch accent. Jack made a mental note to tell Anamaria that Shaftoe’s falsetto needed work, though the whispering helped.

Anamaria had already gone to the servants’ quarters where she would be working under the pretense that she spoke only Dutch and some Caribbean dialect. This, they hoped, would prevent too many people from giving her orders, or at least prevent her from having to follow them, though she spoke Spanish perfectly well.

All in all, their system of communication was complicated. According to the Spanish court they spoke the following:

Señor Macufino (Jeronimo): Spanish  
Jesus de la Cruz (Moseh): Spanish, Dutch, Mayan, English, French  
Father Gorrion (Jack Sparrow): Mayan, Spanish, Dutch  
Anamaria (Anamaria): Dutch Caribbean dialect  
Señora Macufino (Jack Shaftoe): Dutch

This had been designed to keep Shaftoe out of trouble and leave most of the talking to Moseh and Jack whose Plan it was anyway. In actuality, all Dutch was English with a silly accent, the Mayan was Manhatto which both Moseh and Jack spoke. All of them, except Shaftoe, spoke Spanish, and all but Jeronimo spoke English, though he was learning it as quickly as possible. Not, Jack thought, in aid of the Plan, but since Jamie Martingale’s English was better than either of their French or Jamie’s Spanish.

Shaftoe moaned loudly, startling Jack out of his reverie. He wavered where he stood and then fainted dramatickally, the bastard, into Jeronimo’s arms. Since Jeronimo had not been expecting this deviance from the Plan (stand there, be introduced, bugger off to their rooms) he collapsed under Shaftoe’s weight, both sprawling on the floor.

“Christ,” Jack said, then belatedly added, “help this woman in her hour of suffering. Amen,” and crossed himself. 

*****

Jack Shaftoe had not thought it would be appropriate for so many people to be tramping about in a lady’s bedchamber but since those people were his mute husband, his mute husband’s translator, his priest and his maid, Jack supposed that it would be allowed after all. So Jeronimo (sans bandage), Moseh, Sparrow and Anamaria were all in Jack’s room and all of them were yelling at him.

“Hold,” Jack said, removing the hairpiece which had been itching since he had put it on. “He had already pulled off his overdress and was standing about in his underthings; a corset, chemise, underskirts, panniers etc. “I cannot hear you if you all shout at once. I pray you, one at a time.” He bent down as well as he was able to unlace the shoes that were as big as Moseh could find but still pinched abominably and rubbed at the heel and side of his big toe.

“Leave those on,” Anamaria said, as the other fell silent, save Jeronimo whose demon had taken him. Jack ignored him, and Anamaria, until she hooked her fingers through the laces of his corset and yanked sharply, jerking him upright and cutting off his complaint due to a sudden deficit of air.

The others left Anamaria to harangue Jack on the virtues of Sticking To The Plan and Not Showing Initiative as well as get him back into the dress etc. so he could practice being a lady. Though perhaps harangue was not the right word. No, harangue brought to mind fishwives and street preachers which was not the air that Anamaria assumed at all. Rather, she was quiet, forceful and terrifying.

“You listen to me, Jack Shaftoe,” Anamaria said, “you are not essential to the Plan, you are decoration. In case the fact that I am masquerading as a slave has confused you let me remind you that I am first mate and you are conveniently Dutch-looking, and no more. When I or Captain Sparrow tell you to do something, you do it. No more, no less. I did not want you on the _Pearl_ , I did not want you as part of this Plan and know that we could carry it off just as well if Señora Macufino dies of her illness.”

Jack thought about asking if a mysterious death would mean that he would get to go back to the _Pearl_ and then realized that even a death by jungle illness would require a corpse to prove its veracity.

The Imp made a rude sound, puffing out its cheeks and blowing its forked tongue between its lips. _Wait, just a moment, wait till her back is to you. Wait and snatch and crack her on the loud, bossy head and then out the window and away._

“No,” Jack said aloud, which Anamaria took as refusal to get back into the dress. She punched him in the ribs where it wouldn’t show if it bruised and thrust the dress into his hands.

Since being cured of the Pox, Jack no longer saw or heard things that weren’t there, save for the Imp. Unfortunately, since being cured of the Pox, the Imp was an almost constant companion; louder, more corporeal, more an Imp than an _imp_ ulse than ever, and less inclined to listen to Jack unless he spoke to it aloud. As well as being its usual font of bad, and brilliantly mad, ideas, it was also dead set upon the idea of taking Jack Sparrow up on his offer, for reasons that it had yet to fully share with Jack, though he suspected it was simply biding its time. 

*****

Jack Sparrow, Moseh and Jeronimo (jaw re-bandaged) returned to court to beg forgiveness for Señora Macufino’s infirmity and to announce Jeronimo’s intention to liquidate his family estate so he could start a mission in the Americas and bring the One True Faith to the heathens. Their Most Catholic Majesties accepted this gracefully and offered their prayers for Señora Macufino’s health. Then, in as polite tones as a Spanish monarch could produce (more than the entire Company could have mustered most likely) told them to bugger off.

Throughout this entire exchange, Jack could not help but notice that a young woman—blonde, dressed in the Dutch style and somehow familiar—was staring at them with an ugly expression of intense dislike. There were many people Jack could think of, off the top of his head, who had ample reason to look at him in such a way, but for the life of him he couldn’t place her, and he couldn’t think of anyone who could possibly have a quarrel with him, _and_ Moseh, _and_ Jeronimo. This young lady seemed to have a grudge against all three of them.

He nodded in what he hoped was a suitably holy manner in her direction and she huffed, as though offended, and looked away. Jack decided to operate under the assumption that he, at some point, had wronged her and she, at some point, had met Jeronimo, and Moseh was suffering by association.

Were that the case, some alteration to the Plan would need to occur immediately. Jack wondered how possible it would be to murder a member/guest of the Spanish court and, since murder was usually possible, how likely they would be to get away with it.

When they left the audience room, the woman followed them and immediately addressed Jeronimo, through Moseh, in irate Dutch.

Moseh listened helplessly to her tirade until she paused for breath, nodded and turned to Jeronimo and Jack. “Apparently, she’s angry about something,” Moseh said to them. Clearly hedging his bets on if she spoke Spanish, Moseh simply signed it to Jeronimo and spoke in Manhatto for Jack’s benefit.

 _Tell her my lady wife is sick,_ Jeronimo signed while Moseh automatically translated into Manhatto for Jack. _I have to attend to her, as does my priest._

“I would,” Moseh said irritably in Spanish, “If only I spoke one word of Dutch.” Since the woman did not respond, Jack assumed that addressing her in Spanish would be equally useless.

Jack, in Manhatto: What do you mean you don’t speak Dutch?

Moseh, in Spanish: The Plan does not require me to speak Dutch.

Jack, in Spanish: True, save for the part where one of our party is masquerading as a Dutchwoman.

Moseh, in Manhatto: I seem to recall you, some time ago, denying you would have any use for a linguist.

Jeronimo: _What?_

Moseh: _Our captain is behaving like an ass and is misassigning blame. Wait but a moment and I will try and make him see reason._

Jack, in Manhatto: What?

Moseh, in Spanish: What do I tell this woman and how do I go about doing it?

The woman, under her breath, to no one in particular, in English: Unbelievable.

Moseh’s expression of barely restrained panic turned into one of relief and he bowed to her. “Madam,” he said, in English, “may I deduce that you speak the language of Albion?” When she nodded shortly Moseh nearly smiled. “If you are more familiar with this tongue, you might oblige me by conversing with me in it, so I may practice it myself. However, my lord has to go and attend to his lady wife who is ailing at the present moment.” He turned to Jeronimo. “Get out of here,” he said in Spanish, “before she starts yelling again.” 

Jeronimo gave the woman a courtly bow and fled.

The woman bristled. “You did not translate a single word I said,” she accused. “Either you deem the matters that I must bring before your master frivolous when they are of the gravest moral and ethical importance and you disregard utterly the sufferings of those held in confinement as I myself once was, or you sir, are in collaboration with this savage in the guise of a clergyman to keep myself and my cause away from my dear friend Señora Macufino, and her husband who is either deceived by you as she is, or is as culpable as you.”

“Who might I say is calling on milady?” Moseh asked cautiously, though Jack had a growing feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew this woman, not by personal acquaintance, but by reputation.

“Duchess Eliza of Qwlmh,” she said haughtily, “whom she will remember from our meetings in Amsterdam and from our lengthy correspondence after she left for the Americas. At which time, I can assure you, she did not, would never consider, nor would silently suffer her husband to own slaves, as I can see she now does.”

“I shall convey this message to milady as soon as she has regained consciousness. Once her continued survival is assured, your presence will, I’m certain, be her first priority.”

The woman stormed off. Jack stared after her. “Was that—”

“Yes,” Moseh said.

“Isn’t she the one Shaftoe was always—”

“Yes.”

“And wouldn’t she recognize—” 

“Yes.”

“We’re utterly and totally scuppered, ain’t we?”

Moseh sighed. “Yes,” he said. There was a long contemplative silence. “Whatever else we do,” Moseh said finally, “we cannot tell Shaftoe.”

Jack nodded, still wondering if anyone would notice or care if the Duchess of Qwlmh disappeared quietly that night.


	5. In Which Confessions are Made

Over the last two days Jack Shaftoe had practiced his feminine walk and mannerisms until he thought even his own mother (had she ever thought her youngest son would be parading about in a frock) would be fooled, and had gone over every inch of the room (not easy in a corset and That Wretched Dress) looking for entertainment and had found any number of small, pawnable objects that Anamaria had squirreled away. He had studied the view out of the window, a stunning panorama of the city that quickly grew passé to Jack’s well-traveled eyes. He had spent hours practicing ladylike expressions in the mirror.

All of this was to avoid the Imp who would not, no matter how Jack threatened or begged, fuck off. The Imp was keeping up a steady litany of all the amusements to be found outside of the room. It started with the taverns and playhouses, ran the gamut through every mischief Jack could (and frequently had) get up to in a city and finally settled on —if Jack refused to be interesting and leave his prison—Jack Sparrow and the many entertainments he might provide.

Sparrow had looked in on his charge only once in the two days. He had come in to check on Jack’s progress but before Jack could do more than stand up, Sparrow had announced that priests were, indeed, a saintly lot tolerating the confines of a cassock in such heat, and had stripped it off, leaving him in nothing but a pair of tightish breeches and the gris-gris bag hanging around his neck, sun-gilded skin sweat shiny from being under a heavy layer of wool all day.

The Imp, of course, had had a great many opinions on _that_ as well as several about the hard, sailor-lean and sailor-strong curves of his muscles of his arms, chest and shoulders, and about the long, graceful neck behind the now-trimmed, unbraided goatee, as Sparrow stretched and sprawled over the arms of the chair.

Sparrow had looked up, catching Jack staring, and Jack had hastily pointed to the first tattoo that caught his eye and asked where Sparrow had gotten it.

Sparrow had shrugged, causing more rhapsodies from the Imp, and said, “Not at all interesting, that one. Got it in Borneo, mate.” He’d twisted so Jack could see one low on his side, just below his ribs that curved around his back. “Now this one,” he’d said and launched into a tall tale about its acquisition. Sparrow had then proceeded to writhe about on the chair so Jack could see each and every tattoo and hear each and every story behind them.

Anamaria had left halfway through, declaring that she had heard it before, and if anyone needed her she would be with Moseh. The long and the short of it was that by the time Jack had finally got around to showing Sparrow his progress (which had been declared Not Good Enough yet —and he seriously needed to work on his facial expressions and that habit he had of talking to himself) the Imp had a new series of graphic images with which to torture Jack.

Now Jack was practicing his facial expressions again while Anamaria read a book (she turned the pages infrequently and her lips moved slowly which, Jack thought, proved her as a poor reader indeed) and the Imp turned the image of mostly naked, sweat-slick Sparrow around and around in Jack’s head, trying ever more positions to compensate for the few areas it could not detail from Life and nagging Jack for those last scraps of information.

At the sound of a polite knock on the door, Anamaria hid the book she had been reading and got up to accept a letter. Though it was of course addressed to Shaftoe, or rather Mrs. Macufino. Anamaria opened it. She began to read aloud, as slowly and haltingly as Jack had imagined. It was from Moseh.

“All goes well. Señor Macufino, in writing, is seeing to the liquidation of the assets. Padre Gorrión is giving confession in the palace chapel.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Jack interrupted. “What the hell’s he doing that for?”

Anamaria made no reply but to continue reading the letter though Jack could tell from her expression that she agreed with him. “My love—” Here Anamaria stopped and scowled defensively at Jack before continuing reading silently, one bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle and to conceal a blush. This once again left Jack in the company of the Imp which was already declaring that it knew the way to the chapel and wouldn’t Sparrow —here the Imp provided Jack with a brand new image of Sparrow, sprawled seductively in a confessional (which was more hazy an image than Sparrow’s naked body as Jack had never been in a confessional —be glad to see them, or rather, him.

“Anyway,” Jack muttered to it, “I can’t go, even if I wanted to.” He nodded at Anamaria who was _finally_ folding the letter shut. She lit it on a candle and put it in the fireplace to burn out before heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Jack demanded.

Anamaria smirked at him. “Unlike you, I am not confined to this room,” she said. “And unlike you I can fuck.” She picked up a tray with the breakfast dishes from two days ago—that they had been keeping only so they could smuggle the silverware out —and held it purposefully so as to ally suspicion, and left.

 _That’s all she knows,_ the Imp said. _You can use a door same as anyone, and as for the rest…_

“Please stop,” Jack said tiredly. He had been half hard (ha ha) on and off all day because of the Imp and though there was little to show for it it was still frustrating in the extreme.

 _How long has it been?_ the Imp demanded, taking a sudden turn for the logickal. _Sailors at sea, prisoners for years, all take comfort where they can. He’s offering that, Jack O Jack, you could have that and that wouldn’t be so awful, wouldn’t be so strange, no one could say there was aught unnatural about in’t. Even Bob,_ the Imp said, _never sent seven years without._

For the first time in years, half-cocked Jack Shaftoe, king of absolutely fucking nothing at the present, tried—knowing he was doomed to failure—to make himself spend. 

The Imp snorted in disgust. _Of course, Jack my Jack, of course,_ it said. _This ain’t sad, this ain’t sad, an’ useless, an’ hopeless, hopelessly pathetic at all._ Jack could hear its disappointment. _I’ll return anon,_ the Imp said, _for I can’t bear to watch my poor Jack torment himself so._

*****

Jack Sparrow had heard an hour’s worth of confession from the Spanish court and was ready to pronounce everyone as dull as dishwater. The endless parade of petty moments of wrath or envy were enough to make him want to beg them to do something interesting before bothering a priest with it. He was on the point of leaving the confessional and declaring the whole experiment a failure, and a boring one at that, when a gentleman with a posh lisp that Jack vaguely recognized from introductions the night before came in. He was there to receive penance for the affair he was having. With his footman.

Jack brightened. Not because the sin, or the footman, were all that interesting, but because it occurred to Jack that the gentleman might be willing to pay good money to prevent the sin becoming public knowledge. He made a mental note of the particulars, assigned the man a few Hail Marys and decided that he was willing to suffer an hour of boring sins for a lucrative one, should the pattern continue.

Jack was settling down for another hour or so of, “I raised my voice,” and “I wish I had…” when not one but two people pushed their way into the confessional booth beside him. The church was mostly empty and there had been long stretches where no one had come in at all, but that didn’t mean that Jack wanted to hear two young so-and-sos committing sins in his confessional. He slid the screen back, expecting to surprise them, but both silhouettes were looking his way.

“Hello, Father,” one of them said in a slightly panicked voice. “Something terrible has happened.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” the other voice said. “It’s just…not good.”

Jack squinted at the shadows. “Moseh? Anamaria?”

“Hello, Cap’n.”

“What are you doing in there?” Jack demanded. “What are you doing in there together?’

“I thought the door was locked,” Moseh said. “I checked. Twice.”

“Besides, it wasn’t as though we were expecting—” Anamaria stopped short of saying anything remotely useful to Jack. “What was that?”

Jack heard the sound of two people leaving a confessional and then the sound of the Dutchess of Qwhlm and royal pain in Jack’s arse, Miss Eliza. She was telling some servant or other to wait where they were. 

“Damn,” Jack heard Anamaria whisper a second before she and Moseh opened the door to his side of the confessional and crammed in with him.

“What are you doing?” Jack muttered.

“Hiding,” Anamaria and Moseh said in unison, Anamaria from her position crouched at Jack’s feet, kneeling slightly on his toes with her torso pressed against his knees and her arms on either side of one leg, forming part of the knot of limbs that the center of the confessional. Moseh sat contorted around Jack so that his head was on the ceiling, his back pressed against the wall, his arse was half on the bench, half on Jack, and his legs were so tangled with Jack’s own that Jack couldn’t tell them apart in the dark.

“Bloody marvelous,” Jack said as the door to the other side of the confessional opened and the duchess herself sat down.

“I can only assume,” Eliza said in English, in what was not, Jack could only assume, was not a traditional opening to a confession, “that you speak English, as that fiend of a translator—” here Jack cast his eyes heavenward at Moseh who shrugged, nearly fell and re-wedged his body into the space before he could topple over— “ceased to even pretend to do his job once we began to converse thusly.”

Jack and Moseh exchanged a series of frantic eyebrow raises and half-managed hand signs that Jack could only partly see and scarcely understood. “I have learned some,” Jack said, making a decision, even as Moseh finally stopped miming and simply began shaking his head ‘no.’ Jack carried on in as think an accent as he could manage. “What are your sins, my child?”

“It is not my sins I wish to discuss, Father,” Eliza said, “but yours.”

“Hey?” Jack said, startled. Anamaria pinched the skin above his knee and Jack stifled a yelp. “This is a confessional, my child,” he said. “Not a…a accusional.” 

“Accusional?” Moseh mouthed disbelievingly. 

Jack winced and waited for Eliza’s response. “Be that as it may,” she said, “you are complicit in a grievous crime. I speak not only of the enslavement of that poor girl you have as property of the household—I tried to speak to her—”

Jack gave Anamaria a sharp look but she only rolled her eyes.

“—but the dear, ignorant child spoke not a word of any language I could think to try.” Jack nodded approvingly at Anamaria while Moseh glared pointedly at Jack, as Eliza continued to speak. “But more than that, and the misguidance of my poor, physically weakened friend, is the sin committed by that repugnant translator, Jesus De La Cruz.”

Jack swiveled his head to look at Moseh. “What did you do?” he mouthed.

“Nothing!” Moseh mouthed and began frantically trying to make hand signals again while Eliza carried on.

“Hoping to have some communication with either my friend or her husband, I sought them out, but all ways were barred to me. So I went to the rooms of De La Cruz where I found him taking brutal advantage of the slave girl.”

Had the occupants of the priest’s part of the confessional not been communicating silently they still would not have made themselves understood over each other, as they were all signing and gesturing at the same time.

Moseh was indicating that it was not advantage taken, and besides he _checked_ the damn door twice. Anamaria gesturing to the effect that of _course_ he wasn’t taking advantage, and she never said he was, and she outranked him anyway, but how could you check twice and still not lock it? While Jack was silently declaring ownership of Moseh’s testicles.

After a lengthy, silent but communicable interlude had passed, Eliza said, “Father?”

“Yes, yes,” Jack said peevishly.

“As the man’s confessor you must have known about this,” Eliza said. “Therefore I hold you at least partially responsible.”

“I’d had no idea,” Jack said between his teeth, glaring at Moseh. “What, exactly, did you witness?” He ignored the frantic miming from Anamaria and Moseh though the silent explanations resulted in his being smacked, elbowed and otherwise jostled as their gestures became increasingly more emphatic. 

“The girl was seated upon a table while—”

“Aye!” Jack said hastily then, “see. I see.” He squirmed unhappily as Anamaria jabbed him in the side with her bony knuckles. “What I mean, my child, is did you see anything which indicated force was being used? Other than her position? I mean, station.”

Moseh buried his face in his hands, slipped, and elbowed Jack in the shoulder trying to recover his balance.

“That,” Eliza said icily, “was enough. I myself was once a harem girl.”

Moseh groaned quietly. Of the many stories Mad Jack had to tell, the ones about Eliza were by far the least interesting and cropped up a disproportionate number of times. Jack imagined Moseh had heard the tale ad nauseum, especially judging from the way he could mouth along with what Eliza said.

“Yes, well,” Jack said, cutting her off as she was telling him how, thank God, her virtue had been left intact. “I’ll be sure to have a talk with him on the matter. I’ll do all I can.”

“I could buy her,” Eliza said and Moseh barked his head on the ceiling of the confessional as he started in surprise. Anamaria bit down on Jack’s knee to keep from laughing aloud or making an outraged protest, Jack wasn’t sure. “Tell him that,” Eliza said. “Anything to save the poor child from such dreadful abuse.”

“Mm,” Jack said. “Of course.”

When Eliza had finally buggered off, Jack sat back, preparing to unleash a speech about propriety, the importance of locking doors, what the hell they thought they were doing anyway and who was watching Shaftoe while they were both otherwise occupied when Moseh looked down at Anamaria and said in pitiful tones, “Dreadful?”

Jack threw up his hands, catching them both in the head. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “Get out of here.”

“It ain’t the word I would have used,” Anamaria said as she and Moseh clambered out of the confessional. 

“Just go!” Jack said. “Before someone sees you.”

“’S all right, Captain,” Anamaria said, poking her head back into the booth. “I’m going to put bad ju-ju on her as soon as I can find a bat and some sundries.”

Jack nodded. “Just be careful. And keep Shaftoe away from her.” Jack settled back, preparing for more, less nerve-rattling confessions while mentally composing what Moseh ought to say to Duchess Eliza when she inevitably tracked him down.

*****

Jack Shaftoe had stripped off That Wretched Dress and most of his underthings as soon as Anamaria had left the room. He had sat in his bloomers, finally free of the corset and the shoes and spent a futile and frustrating half-hour failing to hold on to a mental picture of Mary Dolores, a handful of actresses he had known, and a few fictional women he had imagined (they flowed into each other, one face shifting to another, ceaselessly becoming Sparrow before Jack refocused his mind) and failing to get any source of relief from the Remnant before Jack’s irritation finally solved the problem for him.

He spent a further half-hour or more being agitated and pacing the room until the Imp returned. This time it did nothing but give him a knowing and vaguely disapproving look before settling back onto his shoulder. Jack shrugged, partially to show his contempt and partially in a half-hearted attempt to dislodge the Imp. He went back to practicing facial expression in the mirror.

“Ain’t a problem now,” Jack said when the Imp’s silence became hard to bear.

_Might’ve stayed on the oar, _the Imp said sulkily. _Least there you’d no pleasure to refuse, might as well row and row might as well whip yourself. That’d stop things, just like the monks do, Jack, just like them.___

__Jack was fairly sure that most monks fucked more often than he did. “If I go,” he said to the Imp, “will you please shut up?”_ _

___No_ the Imp said._ _

__Jack sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, he needed to shave again. “All right,” he said, “but I’ll need to get back into the dress.”_ _

__As it turned out he was scarcely better at getting into the dress alone than he was at making himself spend or at getting the Imp to shut up. As soon as it was on mostly right—a process that by Jack’s estimations took almost an hour and a half—he left the room, sparing a moment to hope that Anamaria would not return in his absence, and set out to find the chapel._ _

__He supposed that he should not have been surprised to find that the Imp had been lying when it said it knew the way to the chapel. Since he could not ask for directions without revealing his lack of a tropical illness and knowledge of Dutch or Spanish, Jack wandered aimlessly until he stumbled upon it quite by accident. Only one confessional was occupied, so Jack maneuvered his skirts into it and closed the curtain behind him._ _

__“I’m here,” Jack said through the screen to the man in the priest’s booth, “to take you up on your offer.”_ _


	6. In Which New Positions Are Assumed

“Aren’t you s’posed to be in your room, sick with a jungle fever?” said Sparrow’s voice and Jack Shaftoe sighed with relief that he hadn’t cocked up too badly.

“Yes,” Jack said, wiping his sweating palms on his skirts. “Nevertheless, I am here.”

Jack heard a soft rustling sound as though Sparrow was shaking his head.

“Well?” Jack asked.

“‘Well’ what?” Sparrow replied.

“I’m here to take you up on your offer,” Jack said. “If it still stands.”

“I’m sure it does,” Sparrow said. “Only, I can’t remember what it was. What offer might that have been?”

Jack was half-tempted to get up and leave; he hadn’t expected to be made to detail his request, but as the Imp reminded him, in for a penny, better to be hanged for a sheep etc. “You offered to help me with my problem,” Jack said.

“So I did!” Sparrow said brightly. “Just the other day I believe I offered to help you with your Lady’s walk. How’s that coming by the way?”

Jack’s patience, never much good at the best of times, wore thin. “Look,” he said, “you know perfectly well what I mean. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll leave.”

“Hold, Jack,” Sparrow said, “I was only fooling. By all means, you should leave this place, but it would help if we did so together, or at least with a common destination in mind.”

“Where then?” Jack asked, trying to sound neither anticipatory nor as though he was dragging his heels. He felt queasy with nerves to the point where he wasn’t sure the Experiment would work, no matter what Sparrow did. He thought determinably about Mary Dolores, and various actresses. It didn’t help.

“I have rooms,” Sparrow said, “where I doubt we’ll be disturbed.”

Sparrow’s rooms, as befitting the austerity of the priesthood, were not nearly as nice as the ones Jack had been ensconced in. The bed was narrow and looked hard, not that Jack wanted to go anywhere near Sparrow’s bed, and the space usually reserved for books and the accoutrements of the clergy was filled with weaponry. There was a sturdy wooden table, a few chairs, and an extremely ugly rug. It was not a room that inspired much of anything but Sparrow was stripping down to his…not breeches this time, only linen smallclothes.

“A moment!” Jack cried. “I thought—”

Sparrow was laughing at him, he was certain of it, even if he wasn’t actually laughing aloud. “Is that a change in heart, Mr. Shaftoe?” he asked, backing Jack up, bare to the waist, lithe and masculine, and seductively determined. 

Jack’s voluminous skirts hit the edge of the table. “No,” he said, “it’s just—”

“Then let me do as you’ve bid me do.” Sparrow looked Jack up and down, a quirk in those expressive lips. “Though, I must ask, am I to repeat Eliza’s chilly process or am I allowed other shared members?”

_Yes!_ the Imp cried. _Say yes JackmyJack_

“Not your cock,” Jack said suspiciously.

Sparrow pressed a hand over his own heart. “’Pon my honour,” he promised, which seemed to Jack to be little enough to depend upon. “Turn around.”

Decidedly unsure about the whole rotten business, Jack turned around, muttering, “No need to take your cassock off.” He wasn’t so sure he wanted away from Sparrow’s Manipulations that he was willing to antagonize Sparrow into stopping. Jack was usually very sure of what he did or did not want. This was an unfortunate time to lose that perspective.

Sparrow did laugh then, putting one warm hand between Jack’s shoulder-blades and pushing down until Jack was on his elbows, bent over the table. He’d never been a schoolboy, but he felt that this must be a great deal like that. Only without a frock. 

“I have many reasons why I opted for its removal,” Sparrow said, smoothing his hand down Jack’s back. He sounded altogether far too calm for Jack’s liking, seeing as he was about to pitch an utter fit if Sparrow didn’t stop making a production out of it and get on with things. “It’s hot as hell in all that wool, I have no wish to dirty it, and moreover, since you are in the guise of a Dutchwoman, I assumed that it might be easier on your delicate sensibilities if I was not also in costume, as a Jesuit no less. I suppose I could put it back on, if you think that might have a positive influence on your experience.”

“Christ, stop talking,” Jack said, head dropping down to rest on the table.

Sparrow, laughing, made quick work of the ties holding Jack’s clothing together, skirts sliding down his legs, corset loosened and removed—a disrobing that Jack wasn’t going to argue as the Experiment would be traumatic enough without the added embarrassment of That Wretched Dress—as Jack gamely kicked off his shoes and tugged the pinned curls away from his own hair, which fell loose around his shoulders, tamed blond strands hiding his view of anything but the table in front of him. He felt like a horse being blanketed to prevent it from spooking, and then Sparrow’s hand was on his bare hip and he was murmuring things that Jack was certain he’d have to punch Sparrow for if only he could hear them properly. He was blinded, barefoot, and half-way convinced that he’d just signed himself up for an asked-for buggering. Then Sparrow’s knees audibly hit the floor, callused palms sliding up his calves, over the backs of his thighs, gently coaxing his legs apart. He relaxed slightly, for Sparrow could not possibly do more than he’d asked for in such a position, and moreover, he felt that a kick to the head would stop any shenanigans. 

“It surprises me,” Sparrow said, in conversational tones, “that not only have you not found others to do this for you, but you haven’t done it for yourself.”

Eliza’s hand had been soft and hesitant, reluctant, but Sparrow’s hands were sure as they dug into Jack’s lower back, rubbing out an ache that he’d become accustomed to since entering the Plan. Sparrow’s hair brushed against him, tangled and rough with salt and Jack shivered and relaxed still further.

“Was rather occupied with the tedious business of slavery,” Jack mumbled into the fold of his arms. “And I ain’t that flexible.”

Those clever fingers dug into the muscle of his arse and the tops of his thighs, which ought to have been desperately strange, but as it had been with his back, his body relented under Sparrow’s touch, knots he hadn’t known were there smoothing out. He sagged against the table, letting it properly take his weight.

“Nonsense,” Sparrow said. “Everyone is. I can’t credit you tried very hard.” 

_Christ_ , was that his moustache brushing Jack’s skin? 

Jack was distracted from further enquiry as to what the fuck Sparrow’s mouth was doing so very near his Remnant and/or arse depending on which way Sparrow shifted himself, by thumbs pulling him open, exposing places that ought not to be exposed. 

“Hang on,” Jack said, but Sparrow was clearly done listening to him, and general parlance was going to be limited, as Sparrow was licking a broad stripe up his cleft, a well-placed elbow to the back of Jack’s knee ruining his efforts to get himself upright.

His tongue pressed hard against Jack’s opening, thumbs pushing not in, not yet, but enough that Jack clenched involuntarily. “I don’t think—” he tried again and Sparrow elbowed his knee hard enough that it buckled completely, one thumb pushing past the resistance of Jack’s body and Jack grunted, or possibly it was a moan; his ears were roaring like he was underwater and he could no longer properly hear himself.

Sparrow’s mouth was very wet against him and Jack was undone by the startling roughness of his moustache, the strength of his hands and his surety. Jack had experienced many bizarre things in his life, but having Captain Jack Sparrow on his knees for him, his body opening up for such strange pleasure—and there was pleasure, not like what he’d felt in that hot spring, but like his unsuccessful adventures after the Incident at Dunkirk with actresses; the Remnant swelling without hope of relief…It wasn’t going to work, Jack thought shoving his hair out of his face, trying to see. 

Then Sparrow moved away, pressing his cheek to the skin of Jack’s hip instead. “Easy,” he said, two fingers, slick and warm, pressing into Jack.

“Oh, Christ,” Jack said, trying to grip onto the tabletop. “Please.” He didn’t know what he was asking for. Sparrow’s fingers were much bigger than Eliza’s had been and they sought that place inside of him roughly, rubbing against it as Sparrow worked them in and out, his other hand on Jack’s back, between his shoulder-blades, tracing circles that might have been soothing normally but were maddening. He wanted that touch everywhere, as he hadn’t had for so long, he wanted it on the cock he no longer had.

This was no Manipulation, but Jack shied away from thinking about what it might be as Sparrow got to his feet and Jack could only imagine the flex of muscled forearm, the pull of the scar on his wrist. Then there was a third finger stretching him open and Sparrow was bending over, the sweat-damp skin of his chest sliding against Jack’s back, breathing hot into Jack’s ear, his free hand now tangled in Jack’s hair.

“I can’t,” Jack said, gasping for air as Sparrow fucked into him with his fingers. “Jack, I can’t.”

And then he was, and he did, and Sparrow bit his ear, the hinge of his jaw and laughed again, a low chuckle, as Jack shuddered and spent. “You are a very contrary creature, Jack Shaftoe,” Sparrow said, sounding rather breathless himself and as Jack came back to himself, aware of the heavy press of Sparrow’s body, and his own delighted exhaustion, he felt something Unexpected.

“Is that your cock?!” he said, jerking upright.

Sparrow startled back, and Jack could see the thick outline of Sparrow’s cock through the thin fabric of his drawers. Sparrow cleared his throat but Jack was suddenly very aware that he was mostly naked, in the private rooms of another mostly naked man, who had just had his fingers up Jack’s arse and who had obviously been enjoying it, and he had no desire to find out what Sparrow wanted to say.

He snatched up a few items of clothing, jammed the hairpiece back onto his head, and fled, the Imp leaping along beside him.

_Going to get in trouble if they catch you!_ it said. _Better go back, better see what else Sparrow can do._

Sure that anyone prying would only see a disheveled blur of white underclothes and blond hair as he rushed through the corridors, Jack ignored it and was back in his rooms before he knew it.

*****

Right up until the very end, Shaftoe’s presence and actions had been fairly rousing, and while Jack Sparrow was not surprised at Shaftoe’s behavior he confessed to being a little disappointed and, moreover, he had an extremely persistent erection. Come to think of it, it dawned on Jack that that might have been part of the reason behind Shaftoe’s hasty retreat. He comforted himself with the thought that he, at least, could sort out his problem on his own. He did so, and if he thought of Shaftoe, well, he’d had Jack Shaftoe, the terrible roughness of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the perfect swell of his arse, Christ, his magnificent arse, under his hands and mouth, so who could blame him?

Scarcely had he put the cassock back on when there was a knock at the door. Anamaria was on the other side, and she jerked her head in a ‘come on’ gesture. “Moseh’s called a meeting,” she said. “Jeronimo’s rooms. Everyone but Shaftoe.”

“What about Shaftoe?”

“I just locked him in his room,” Anamaria said. “He wasn’t happy about it, but there’s nothing he can do.”

Jack put his crucifix back on. “He could climb out the window,” he pointed out, though if Shaftoe was up to shimmying down rope ladders and storm gutters he hadn’t done his job.

Moseh, Jeronimo, Anamaria and Jack met up for a tedious but necessary meeting discussing the dead man’s assets, his holdings, his credit, his dealings in the Exchange etc. Most of said sources of income were being changed gradually into gold, silver and varying other forms of specie. Or, failing that, into goods that would be salable at a later date. Had they wanted notes of credit the process would have gone much faster, but since they didn’t it wasn’t.

“How long is this going to take?” Anamaria asked. “Moseh can keep Eliza off our backs, but I don’t know how long I can keep Shaftoe from the court. He’s already complaining that we may as well have not brought him.”

“He has a point,” Jeronimo said, rubbing at where the bandage had been chafing his skin. “You mongrels didn’t bring him along because he was the sensible option.”

“True,” Jack said. “But neither did we bring him along under the assumption that the object of his obsession would be hanging about, ready to unmasque us all. Have we got any closer to translating those correspondences between Dear Eliza and Seora Macufino yet?”

Moseh shook his head. “No. We’re working on it,” he said. “We need to find someone who both speaks Dutch and won’t let it be known a) that we’ve hired him and b) the contents of the letters.”

“Well,” Jack said, “I have an idea for the interim. No fears, Moseh, it does not interfere with the Plan. Now, I don’t know how much you know about the inner workings of the Catholic Church but, almost unprompted and a little unasked for, people will tell their priests absolutely everything.”

“How do you intend to pull off a blackmail, as I believe the expression is, like that without everyone who has told you their secrets realizing it was you who is attempting said extortion?” Moseh asked.

Jack waved a hand. “O’” he said airily, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

*****

Jack Shaftoe was feeling discombobulated in the extreme. Nothing was as it ought to be, or, at least, in a spectacular reversal, nothing was as he was used to. He was full. He was warm. He had recently spent. And he was bored.

The first two were not something he was seeking to alter so he ignored them with a grateful mental nod to whatever higher power cared enough about a London mudlark, far from where he’d begun, to see to his comfort.

In regards to Sparrow and their Encounter, there were any number of Bobish objections he could think of to what had transpired. But all of those, when he dug at the root of them, came from either the laws of God, or the laws of man – two things he had spent his life ignoring, avoiding or willfully violating. Not to mention that the process and result were more or less the same as what had occurred in the hot springs, albeit with less reluctance and less motive on the part of the performer. Eliza, as he now recalled, had done it for needle and thread. It was Sparrow’s motive that was causing him thought, if not concern at the moment. Judging by the look on Sparrow’s face and the reaction of other parts, Sparrow had been in it for the same reasons as Jack himself, and it seemed hypocritical to criticize, no matter how much the half-remembered voice of Bob Shaftoe objected.

Jack put the thought, as well as his shoes, aside and settled down on a chair – a vermillion affair with a deep enough seat that he could lean back and almost manage a slouch, even in a corset – to think about his current situation. Boredom in comfort was not something Jack was accustomed to and boredom whilst surrounded by so many opportunities for mischief and adventure seemed like a shameful waste of a situation and his own talents.

The others were, he knew, in Jeronimo’s rooms. Probably discussing some tedious detail of the Plan, but whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than sitting around in his boudoir fretting about his virtue.

Jack tried, for about thirty seconds, to pick the lock. He then simply shouldered the flimsy, painted wood open, put his shoes back on and set out for Jeronimo’s rooms. 

***** 

Jack Sparrow was finishing narrating the last of the persons he thought they could blackmail and how he might go about doing it, and the looks on the faces of his companions were not encouraging. They were mostly expressing skepticism with a side of indulgent patience. Moseh was writing it all down in Manhatto but he looked dubious. 

The door burst open and Shaftoe burst in. “Blackmail is it?” he asked, clearly having been listening at the door, though not, Jack hoped, for very long. “I’m game,” Shaftoe said. “Who’re we blackmailing?”

“I locked you in,” Anamaria said.

Shaftoe shrugged and gave a wide, guileless smile. “So you did,” he said. “Door’s broken.” Turning to the group at large, he said, “I’ve been working at being a Lady for weeks now and I know that I’ll never have it well enough to satisfy Anamaria. If I’m not to help, then what good am I? I believe I can fool the rest of the court. Mrs. Macufino is feeling much better and is no longer willing to be confined to her rooms.”

“Shaftoe,” said Jack.

“What?” Shaftoe said.

“Shaftoe can do the blackmailing,” Jack continued. “I’ll give him the information and he can verify and learn more amongst the ladies. They’ll speak freely in front of him if they think he speaks no Spanish. Then, as himself, he can do the actual legwork.”

The other three assumed new, yet no less dubious, expressions. “What about the pain in the arse?” Moseh asked in Manhatto, speaking of course of Eliza but looking worriedly at Jeronimo, lest his demon blurt out their secret. 

“You keep her away from him,” Jack replied in the same, “and I’ll keep him away from her.”

“What did you say?” Shaftoe demanded.

“If we’d wanted you to know,” Jack said smoothly, “I’m sure we would have said it in English. Content yourself with the knowledge that your rolê in the Plan now includes leaving your rooms. And trousers.”


	7. In Which Things are Made Public

They were ensconced in Moseh's room, since Shaftoe had developed a habit of bursting unannounced into Jack's own quarters, discussing the developments of the Plan. Shaftoe's new liberty was problem, since he was the one they were presently discussing. The room was as small as Jack's and decidedly crowded with everyone save Shaftoe crammed into it, seated upon every available surface; one chair, the table and a narrow cot and, in the case of Anamaria, Moseh.

“Nothing remains then,” Jack Sparrow said that evening, “but to survive this evening without the pain in our collective arses (I mean, of course, Eliza) noticing that the dearly departed Señora Macufino is, in fact, our own disreputable Mad Jack.” He had had it explained to him by both Jeronimo (patiently) and Moseh (with great aggravation but less blasphemies) why their attendance at the dinner was absolutely vital but still could not fathom what was so urgent that it required bringing them under the noses of every important person in Spain. Moseh had finally told him that the Plan did not require him to understand, merely to do.

The evening’s Event was a formal banquet with many nobles, several bishops and, if they were very unlucky, the King, the Queen, and the pain in their collective arses. Jack Shaftoe’s task, after the dinner, would be to withdraw with the rest of the ladies to see who was worth blackmailing. The task of everyone else would be to ensure that Eliza did not attend. Since the meal was only a mere three hours away and Eliza was certain to be there, complete abortion of the Plan seemed to be the only option. Except there would be no way to explain that to Shaftoe who was going to be amongst the court for the very first time since they had been introduced.

“One of you degenerate bastards will have to intercept the endlessly irritating waste of breath and breasts,” Jeronimo said. “I have to be there, so it can’t be me.”

“We all have to be there,” Jack said.

There was a moment’s pause and then all three men – Jeronimo, Jack and Moseh – turned to look at Anamaria who did not, in fact, have to be at the dinner.

“Whatever happened to cutting her throat?” Anamaria asked.

“Would if I could, love,” Jack said morosely shifting so he was more comfortable in his perch cross-legged on the tabletop, “but I’ve learned from my confessions that she’s embroiled in some kind of Intrigue and someone will be sure to notice if she is dispatched with. Waylay her and I will be forever in your debt.”

“You’re already in my debt,” Anamaria pointed out. “This is going to be one magnificent ship.” She stood, and headed for the door, with what on any other woman would have been a flounce. “I’d better go, it’s not an easy task getting Shaftoe into a presentable state.”

Jack got up, a little too fast. “I’ll do it,” he said.

Anamaria raised an eyebrow. “I bet you will,” she said.

Moseh and Jeronimo looked confused when Jack laughed and spread his hands. “Got experience with getting others in and out of dresses,” Jack said and sauntered off feeling cheerful and optimistic despite the odds.

The odds, he had to admit, were abysmal. While he was gratified to find out that his prowess at bringing carnal pleasures to others was not limited in the personage of one Jack Shaftoe, that gratification was rather dimmed by the frustrating truth that Shaftoe was a blithering idiot. There were some obvious, irrefutable Facts at hand, and Shaftoe seemed determined to ignore every one of them. 

Firstly, Jack Sparrow, pirate captain, an oddity and curiosity to delight even the most jaded eye, who had sailed every sea worth sailing, was interested in bestowing his attentions on the aforementioned Jack Shaftoe. (And as an addendum to point the first, no one else wanted Shaftoe.)

Secondly, Jack Shaftoe enjoyed, as evidenced by his rather vocal appreciations of Jack’s attentions, being the focus of Jack’s interest.

Thirdly, Shaftoe’s proclaimed disinterest in Jack’s own person was bollocks and any fool could see that.

Except Shaftoe himself.

Jack let himself into Shaftoe’s rooms without announcing his presence. Shaftoe was sprawled naked on his bed, one arm over his eyes as though napping. “Anamaria would not have been happy about that,” Jack opined, grinning when Shaftoe startled upright. “I’m to help you dress,” he added.

“Christ,” Shaftoe muttered, shoulder twitching in that curious spasm he had.

“No, though the King is expected to be there with her royal highness, as is the High Inquisitor, or someone like that; so a trifle more relevant if not important than Jesus.” He made an ‘up, up’ gesture, but Shaftoe seemed disinclined to rouse himself.

Shaftoe’s shoulders twitched once more, almost violently this time, and he turned his cornflower-blue gaze on Jack, bottom lip chewed puffy and red. “A little warning would’ve been appreciated, is all,” he said.

Sharp as he was, Jack had no idea what Shaftoe was talking about, and indicated as much.

“You’d said you wouldn’t try to bugger me, and I took you at your word,” Shaftoe said sullenly, glaring at the coverlet.

“My dear fellow,” Jack said, sitting on the bed across from Shaftoe, “if I’d meant to do anything of the kind, I would have informed you before the fact and solicited your approval. I apologize for finding you rousing, but there's little I can do about it. Save ceasing our Experiments.”

Shaftoe turned a scowl in Jack’s direction, but it eased when Jack winked. “Well,” Shaftoe said. “Alright then.” He sighed. “Fucking dress.”

Jack, never one to miss an opportunity when it was sitting naked in front of him, smoothed his beard thoughtfully. “I s’ppose I could make the Endeavour worth your while, if you aren’t too scandalized from our last experiment.” When Shaftoe only quirked an eyebrow, Jack continued; “I would not be adverse to another Manipulation of your person.”

He was pleased to see a flush on Shaftoe’s pale skin, though if it was arousal or embarrassment, Jack wasn’t sure. Shaftoe chewed on his bottom lip again and a third spasm ran through him. It was something Jack was beginning to notice as a decision making tic, and wondered vaguely if it was a remnant (haha) of the syphilis.

“I renew my promise that I will not attempt to sod you,” Jack said generously.

“That would be…” Shaftoe said, curling his toes into the bed. “I mean, I suppose that…”

Jack hitched up the cassock and crawled up the bed so he was crouched in front of Shaftoe. “Is that a yes, Jack?” he asked.

Shaftoe turned his face away. “Aye,” he said. “Yes. Please.” He let Jack push him onto his back, though the startled wideness of his eyes made him look younger and less sure of himself than he liked to play himself as.

Jack fitted his thumbs to the groove of Shaftoe’s hipbones and rubbed at the smooth skin there. “I warn you,” he said, “I can’t promise that I will have no reaction of my own. I cannot be so dispassionate as your Eliza.”

“S’all right,” Shaftoe said, arm over his eyes again. “I…Jack, for pity’s sake.”

Jack took mercy on him and took the Remnant in one hand. He could hold it easily in his fist, already swollen, and as hard and as long as it would ever be. “Does this pain you at all?” Jack asked, rubbing his thumb over the dry slit, then licking his thumb and doing so again.

Shaftoe dug one fist into the bedspread. “No,” he said, breathless. “It’s just a waste of time.”

Jack put his mouth to Shaftoe, pressing his hips down more out of habit than because Shaftoe would be able to choke him. The scar tissue was rough under his tongue and he dragged his teeth gently over the underside. Shaftoe swore and jerked under him, letting go of the bed to clutch at Jack’s hair. He wasn’t pulling Jack away though, more holding him in place, so Jack did it again, and then again, until Shaftoe was groaning and arching his back.

Always prepared, Jack let go of Shaftoe and let him thrust helplessly into his mouth, taking it easily. He dug about in the pocket he had sewn into the cassock since it was woefully under-equipped with those, and produced a small bottle.

Shaftoe was saying his name, and Jack opened his eyes, looking up Shaftoe’s body. Shaftoe had propped himself up on one elbow and was staring at him, mouth open and wet. “Is that holy oil?” Shaftoe asked.

Jack lifted his head and used the moment to coat his fingers with the stuff. “Chrism, I'm told it's called," Jack agreed. "I’ve found it in ready supply.” Shaftoe’s laugh was startled and delighted and it slid into a moan when Jack bent his head to his task again, hooking one of Shaftoe’s thighs over a shoulder.

Shaftoe’s body opened for him easily this time, the Remnant producing a vital humour which Jack swallowed down, pressing his tongue hard into Shaftoe’s slit to seek more as Shaftoe spread his thighs wider, muscle under Jack’s palm twitching. Shaftoe was making near-pained sounds, soft “Oh” noises, and his hands were rough in Jack’s hair.

“Jack,” Shaftoe said, digging his heel into Jack’s back. “O’ Jack, your mouth.”

His own erection was a heavy weight between his legs and Jack wanted to put a hand to himself. Though Shaftoe was in no state to protest, or perhaps even notice, Jack instead pinched at Shaftoe’s nipples, three fingers buried inside Shaftoe. He rubbed hard inside of Shaftoe and dragged his teeth over the Remnant again. Shaftoe blasphemed and spent, eyes open, and focused on Jack.

Shaftoe laughed, shakily, and let go of Jack’s hair. “That was-”

Jack sat up, wiping a little of Shaftoe’s release from his moustache. “Fast?” he teased and slapped Shaftoe’s foot down before Shaftoe could lazily kick him.

“Consider it a compliment,” Shaftoe said, broad chest still rising and falling like he was trying to catch his breath.

Jack considered it a crying shame that no one had ever bothered to demonstrate to Shaftoe how wonderful his body still was, and what magnificent heights it could be taken to. He ached to touch himself but instead stood awkwardly. “I will,” he said. “And in return I would ask you to consider that reciprocation, while not expected, is a kindness I would appreciate.”

Shaftoe sat up which was an improvement on fleeing, but he wouldn’t look at Jack anymore. Jack clapped his hands together, frowned, wiped his hands off on the bed, and then presented Shaftoe with his most reassuring smile. “And now to get you respectable,” he said and was pleased to see Shaftoe smile in return.

******

The formal gown was even more uncomfortable than Jack Shaftoe’s usual get-up. The weight of the jewelry and hairpiece had been surprising and the gloves he wore to cover the brand on his hand itched his wrists. Gloves weren’t in fashion but neither were vagabond brands, so the gloves stayed.

Sparrow was no more merciful with a corset than Anamaria was and, if anything, was a little stronger and the laces a little tighter. Jack thought of the effortless way Eliza had worn her usual costume and tried his hardest not to scratch, and to imitate her in all other ways.

The seating arrangements were thus:

Jeronimo sat across from Jack, and Jack had Moseh on his left and Sparrow on his right. The Lady of Somethingorother was on Jeronimo’s left and the Duchess of Whathaveyou on his right, and Jack took note as he was introduced to the women around him, making sure he would know who was who for when they withdrew after dinner.

Jeronimo, jaw bandaged with a swathe of silk, was soon holding court over their section of the table. The hand signals he and Moseh had created could not keep up with the intricacies of courtly language but – after Moseh apologized to the table at large for the limitations of their code – it was obvious that Jeronimo was a great wit and utterly in his element. Though he did no more than sip at wine and water through a hollow reed, his table manners still appeared impeccable. 

He had taught them all appropriate table manners though the language that had accompanied those lessons had been less conducive to leaning etiquette. Moseh appeared confidant with their preparations, and in readiness for the meal he claimed that he had taken a religious vow never to eat meat for some crypto-Jewish related reason that Jack hadn’t enquired into, so his every concern seemed accounted for. He had also claimed, for Jack, that as Señora Macufino was recovering from her illness the doctor had advised her not to take wine, or any other spirit. Jack supposed he ought to have felt insulted that they didn’t think he could perform under the influence, but the table service was anything but simple and Jack was man enough to admit that after a few glasses of good wine he would probably make a fool of himself. He had resolved to prove his companions wrong in their underestimations of his talents. While his movements were not as graceful as he remembered Eliza’s being, no one was paying him undue attention.

As the meal progressed through the first and second courses the conversation shifted from Jeronimo’s fabricated tales of growing up in the New World and his rhapsodies at arriving at his ancestral home, to Sparrow who, as a converted savage of the New World was a source of great fascination. Sparrow was outlining a tall tale about the customs of some tribe in the Caribbean in fantastickaly accented and broken Spanish – though his vocabulary suffered not at all Jack noticed – and Jack, since he knew Sparrow for a liar, was growing bored again.

At first, simply eating had taken all his concentration. Then he had been making his observations on ladies’ behavior but now he thought he had both of those well in hand. Since he had no desire to prevent Jeronimo and Moseh from carrying on for the sake of conversation with the lack-wit of a Duchess on Jeronimo’s left, he cast about for something else to amuse himself with.

The Imp, which had been conspicuously absent since he had given into its demands only hours ago, reappeared to ask what he thought he was doing, sitting there, being Good at people.

Knowing it would cause comment, Jack did not reply which only seemed to irritate the Imp.

O’ yes, the Imp said, so good you got out of that room. So good, so much more interesting out here when Jack’s being so good.

When Jack did nothing more than take a sip of his water the Imp leapt from his shoulder to scamper about the table. It pulled a few faces at the nobility but Jack dutifully ignored it.

It doesn’t have to be dull, the Imp said at last, returning to his shoulder. Sparrow’s right there.

Had Jack been able to respond, he might have said, “Yes, he is. What a keen sense of observation you have, you irrelevant and unhelpful fiend.”

If the Imp heard his thoughts it continued on capering about his person as though it had not, and Jack could not tell if the next thought he had was placed there by the Imp or was his own fault. It struck Jack that now – or rather, as soon as the third course had been set in front of everyone – would be an excellent time to give Sparrow that reciprocity that he had requested. While he was mid oration.

The table was high, the tablecloth long, and they were seated quite close together. The Spanish did not have the same rules as the French, dictating both hands had to be visible at all time, nor did they frown upon eating with your left hand and if Jack turned slightly to his right, he thought –

It was not desire for Sparrow’s corpus, Jack thought, but rather the feeling, which he had been missing since Dunkirk, of a whole cock in his hand. His own would’ve been preferable, but this would do.

Jack glanced at the fastenings of Sparrow’s cassock. A few undone buttons would suffice, especially since Sparrow lately eschewed breeches underneath - something Jack had noticed whilst Sparrow was straddling his person. He slipped his glove off and slid his hand under the napkin on Sparrow’s lap, hoping he hadn’t forgotten how to do this.

Sparrow stopped dead in the middle of a story about Amazon warriors as Jack flexed his fingers, getting the feel of things, so to speak. Sparrow’s audience looked at him curiously and he finished his story with uncharacteristic haste and brevity. He turned to Jack, taking hold of his wrist, which wasn’t enough to stop the movement of his hand, and said in ersatz Dutch, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Reciprocating,” Jack said demurely in his falsetto. He slipped two buttons from their holes and put his hand directly on Sparrow’s prick. His own had been bigger, he was sure of it, but there was no denying that Sparrow’s, hardening against his palm, warm and weighty, when he curled his fingers ‘round it, was certainly respectable enough. “Would you like me to stop?”

Sparrow’s hand tightened momentarily around his wrist before letting go. “You really are mad,” Sparrow said with some degree of breathlessness (as Jack rubbed his thumb over the head of Sparrow’s cock, reacquainting himself with the feeling), some degree of amazement and a touch of admiration.

“I believe everyone would love to hear more of your tales about when you were a savage,” Jack said. “Pray don’t let me keep you from your admirers.”

Sparrow managed to look mostly like a man interested in the conversation around him. “You’re the devil in human form, Jack Shaftoe,” he muttered, then managed a smile as someone made a joke and Jack marveled at how easily certain movements came back.

Not wanting this novel experience to be over too quickly, Jack relaxed his grip and slowed down. Sparrow swallowed convulsively and pushed his hips up slightly. Jack gave him a warning squeeze and Sparrow subsided, biting at the inside of his cheek and breathing too regularly through his nose. Satisfied there’d be no more of that, Jack carried on.

******

Had there been a fifth person aware of the Plan, and had that person been literate, and had that person known the sign language Jeronimo and Moseh had invented, they might have, had the mood taken them, transcribed the conversation during the third course thusly:

Jeronimo: What’s wrong? Is the pain in the arse here? You look as though you’d seen a –

Moseh: It’s not her. You will not believe what Shaftoe and Sparrow are doing.

Jeronimo: Does it have to do with why Sparrow is now silent, save for the odd cough.

Moseh: Yes.

Jeronimo: Do I want to know?

Moseh: In all probability, no. Nevertheless, I am going to tell you as now I know so someone else has to as well.

The next gesture, though it had no direct, one word translation, was clear enough in meaning. Not only to Jeronimo but also to anyone else who had been looking. Thankfully no one but Jeronimo was looking, except for a servant who was standing by to refill his wine glass, who did not particularly care, had anyone asked his opinion.

Jeronimo: You must be joking.

Here Sparrow gripped the edge of the table, the plates of those near him shifting slightly as he wrinkled the tablecloth.

Jeronimo: Oh dear.

Moseh: Somehow I do not see this ending well.

Jeronimo, with a sigh: Tell me when the event is about to occur and I will knock my glass over.

Then passed an interval where Moseh translated for Jeronimo, and looked between Sparrow and Shaftoe, and the mercifully half-deaf, half-blind, old dowager who was to Sparrow’s right. Sparrow’s breathing hitched and he made a noise that an outside observer might have interpreted as a small, mostly stifled whimper on account of the dowager bellowing a question too loudly in his ear, but was in fact due to the release of bodily humours at Jack Shaftoe’s wonderfully capable hands. At a signal from Moseh, Jeronimo belatedly knocked over his glass and the attention of the table was directed at him and not at Sparrow who was catching his breath, or at Shaftoe who was looking far too pleased with himself.


	8. In Which Deviance Occurs

The drawing room was elegantly appointed, with more gilded surfaces than was strictly necessary. Gilt, in Jack's opinion, was annoying. It made small amounts of gold difficult to steal, transport, and trade. The easiest thing was to burn the item in question and then pick up the bits of melted gold as they cooled, but that would take more time, energy, and open flame than he thought the Cabal and the pirates were interested in using. The assembled women were speaking far too rapid Spanish for Jack Shaftoe to catch more than the odd word here or there. He waited until a young woman with an amazingly weak chin and a necklace that made Jack’s back ache in sympathy and his thumbs itch, finished speaking and looked expectantly at Moseh. 

“You’re a dead man,” Moseh said, smiling politely. “A dead man in a dress.” 

“I’m fair certain that’s not what she said,” Jack replied. Not that anyone ever seemed to translate anything accurately for him; it was something he had noticed lately and something he had been meaning to speak to them about. It wasn't that he was interested in what a lot of noblewomen had to say about embroidery or whatever it was that noblewomen talked about, but he was beginning to feel he was being deliberately left out. 

Moseh turned and said something to the young woman who nodded as though his answer had satisfied her and began speaking to another woman who was feeding a small dog bon-bons. The dog, Jack couldn't help noticing, was wearing a collar with what looked like a small fortune in precious stones attached. If the dog were to turn up without its collar, surely someone would notice, but he doubted anyone would be suspicious if dog and collar disappeared together. They'd probably assume it had run off. “No,” Moseh said to Jack. “She said something about her husband’s country estate, which apparently you simply must come and visit. I said that you are fucking dead.” 

“Why?” Jack asked plaintively, certain for once that since he’d been sitting – and not tugging at the corset – he’d done nothing wrong, but was in fact, by all outward appearances, the very model of feminine decorum.

“At the dinner table?” Moseh said incredulously. “In front of the King, the Queen, and an Archbishop.”

The bulk of Jack's attention was, for the first time, diverted away from the wealth in the room and how best to obtain it. It had not occurred to him that anyone would see. And while he was sure that neither the king and queen or the archbishop had witnessed anything, Moseh had and, yes, he’d been on Jack’s other side but he’d looked engaged in conversation, and the fact that what had gone on between him and Sparrow was now no longer between him and Sparrow, but a matter for public discussion, was disturbing and discomfiting in the extreme. “I ain’t a sodomite,” Jack said quickly.

“I don’t care if you are,” Moseh said.

“Before you interrupted me with threats against my life, I’ll have you know that I was engaged in examination of the countess’ cleavage,” Jack lied. 

Moseh looked like he wanted to smack Jack, an expression that Jack was uncomfortably familiar with, and one he doubted would aid them in maintaining their cover, a sentiment he did not voice for the moment. “I don’t care,” Moseh said again. “I don’t care if you’ve been buggered blue since you were fourteen, or if you’re the second coming of Giaccomo Cassanova. Not in front of the bloody archbishop!”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like that,” Jack said desperately. “It ain’t like that.” He tried to think of a way to explain the fact that, when one has been robbed of ones own sexual organ, and had the pleasures of onanism denied to one, the appeal of the actions, in addition to the release, associated with such an activity were difficult to resist when offered. "I fancy women," he said instead.

“Listen to me carefully,” Moseh said. “What you and the captain, or you and any other man, or woman, or anything else do on your own time is not my concern. I don’t care. I could not care if you paid me to do so. But publicly performing acts not only illegal by law of the Crown, but of the Church in front of the top ranking representatives from both, is liable to get you killed. If not by the Inquisition than by me. Do you understand?!”

“Keep your tone even,” Jack said. “And it ain’t like it’s going to happen again anyway.”

Liar! screeched the Imp as Moseh muttered something polite to the court ladies before standing and offering Jack his arm.

“I’ve told them you need to withdraw for a moment. Up. Now.” Jack followed him out into the hall. The moment the door was closed behind them Moseh rounded on him. “For God’s sake, Jack,” he said fiercely, “there are more pressing concerns than your desire, or lack thereof, for Captain Jack Sparrow. Such issues may make compelling gossip, but with the Spanish Inquisition looking on, the only issue at stake, and believe me when I say that I did not intend and deeply regret that pun, is if we have done something that could get us tortured and executed. As the answer for every one of us is most emphatically Yes, I suggest you do nothing public to draw attention to that. Be it fucking the Captain, being visibly a man, or any other foolish thing that pops into your head.”

“All right,” Jack said. “No need to harp on so.”

Moseh sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since I said you were feeling unwell, if you do not return to the drawing-room no one will think it suspect. I am going to find Anamaria. Go to your room.”

“After all your lecturing,” Jack said, incredulous at the unjustness of the universe, “you’re abandoning the Plan to go fuck Anamaria because you’re irritated with me?”

“I have enough information.” Moseh said. “And I’m very tired. And just as I’ve no interest in your social life, you have no business in mine.” Moseh headed away down the corridor.

Jack walked a few paces from the drawing-room in case Moseh looked back, then turned around and returned to his seat on the chaise-lounge. “Parlez-vous Français ?” Jack asked the room at large, snapping his fan open. 

One of the ladies looked up, pleased. “Oui,” she said with a smile. “Un petite peau.”

Jack grinned. “Fantastique.”

******

Jack Sparrow was impressed. Even though Jeronimo – without Moseh – had to only comment now and again in writing, he still managed to dazzle the company by a potent combination of wit, charm, and penmanship. The Spanish court was so thoroughly enamored of this newly-returned New World Spaniard that Jack was starting to wonder if Jeronimo might be able to keep their affection even if he did allow his demon free reign in front of him, considering it, as the Cabal, and lately the pirates did, a sort of endearing quirk. Jack and Jeronimo had already worked out who was worth robbing, or at least so Jeronimo had assured Jack through a hand signal an hour ago. Instead of leaving right away, Jack was sitting and letting the conversation wash over him. He had anticipated that he would be expected to abstain from drinking, but since the Archbishop didn’t seem to have any problem with getting tiddly, Jack was enjoying a glass of very excellent wine, and mulling over what had happened at dinner.

He thought of himself as a fairly impulsive man, but Jack Shaftoe’s mental processes seemed to be something else altogether. Action with little to no thought for survival was all well and good, and the offering of a friendly hand was not something Jack wanted to discourage, but there was a time and a place, two concepts he did not think had ever occurred to Jack Shaftoe. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself, but he couldn’t help wondering if Shaftoe might not change his mind back just as quickly. If he didn’t, it would present a different problem, as public functions were going to be more difficult to manage than they had Planned for. More interesting, of course, but also decidedly more dangerous. 

To keep Jeronimo’s novelty from wearing off, they left a little early and went to find the rest of the group to compare notes on which one of the blackmailable nobles were worth blackmailing and to find out what had happened with Eliza. Jack was hoping the answer to the latter question involved an appalling, but untraceable, act of violence. He settled himself into a chair as Jeronimo unwrapped the bandage from around his jaw and unleashed a pent-up stream of profanity. Despite the words, the sentiments were more or less of satisfaction; Jeronimo was pleased with the work they had done that night, even if his demon was not. He pushed a list across the end table and slumped down on the settee with a pleased smile. Anamaria was sprawled across the rest of the settee; she looked exhausted, miserable, and belligerent, and was taking swigs directly from a bottle of wine. Jack had encountered her in these moods before, and thought it best not to inquire as to the cause until she brought it up herself. An act of appalling violence aimed at himself was not what he had had in mind.

“Enjoyed yourself then?” Moseh asked. He had somehow managed to acquire a mark on the face that suggested he had been struck recently, by something quite heavy, and he kept dabbing under his nose with a bloodstained rag. Ignoring Jack and Jeronimo’s querying looks at his cheek, Moseh pulled the list over to himself and examined it. “I would say that the Duke and Duchess of Torrelavega are wealthier than you suspect, judging from what the Duchess said in the drawing room.” He scanned the names, nodding to himself. “The rest of this looks right.”

“Excellent,” Jack said. “Now in regards to this evening in relation to the Plan-”

“I had a bit of a word with Shaftoe,” Moseh said, then stopped as though unsure how best to phrase his thoughts. 

Jack waved the comment away, airly, hoping that by doing so he could convince the entire company, if not himself, that the Incident had been of no consequence. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “It won’t happen again. Mr. Shaftoe is an…interesting man. I promise to keep him more firmly in hand from now on.” At a pointed look from Moseh and a quiet groan from Anamaria, Jack reconsidered. “That is to say, instead of visa versa. Now, as far as tonight went in relation to the Plan-”

Anamaria sat up. “Five and a half hours,” she said. “I’m not doing it again.” 

Jack tipped his head to one side. “Five and half hours of what?” he asked, trying not to be annoyed at the continued disruption of his conversational train.

“The Countess de la Zeur,” Anamaria said, drinking deeply from the bottle. “You told me to stop her. So I went to her rooms and told her I spoke a little English. And that I needed her help.” It certainly explained her unhappy mood, if not Moseh's injuries, but Jack was willing to put his faith in all things becoming clear eventually.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Jeronimo asked.

Anamaria glared at him. “What did you idiots think I was going to do?”

“Lock her in her room?” Jack suggested. “Set her dress on fire. Steal all her shoes etcetera.”

“Interesting, Captain,” Anamaria said. “But I opted to do something that would actually work. Which was, as I said, five and a half hours of listening to the most tedious woman in Spain.” She slumped back down. “She told me things could be better and that I mustn’t let you make me think of myself as less than I am. That rousingly patronizing speech went on for about an hour. Then she looked as though she was thinking about going to dinner so I started to weep and told her some very unflattering lies about Moseh.” She winced. “And Jeronimo. And you, Jack. Mostly Moseh. Her resulting outrage lasted another two hours. I tried to ignore her and think of other things but I suspect she noticed because every time I did so, she would speak slower, louder and using smaller words. And then, when she got up to leave, in an act of desperation, mind you, I told her she couldn’t possibly understand what I’d been through because she had never been a slave.”

Both Moseh and Jeronimo cringed and Jack could only assume that this too was another of Mad Jack’s tales that he had yet to be subjected to. They clearly understood some import of what Anamaria had said that Jack did not.

“She was still talking when Moseh came in and said-” 

“’Pardon me, but have you seen,’ was what I said, I believe,” Moseh said. “At which point she leapt up and hit me with her silver-backed mirror. We’re going to have to think of something to tell Shaftoe about what happened to my face, by the way.” 

“Anyway,” Anamaria said, “I grabbed Moseh by the hand, made a show of not wanting to go with him, and got him out of there before she could smack him again. You all owe me. Eliza has sworn to work tirelessly until I have escaped from my current situation.” 

“Bloody hell,” Jack said. "What on earth induced you, Moseh, to go anywhere near the pain-in-the-arse's rooms?"

Moseh looked sheepish. "I saw that Anamaria was not in her room, and I assumed that that meant she was still with Eliza. I thought it only decent to go and rescue her, since I thought she must have been listening to her for longer than any reasonable human could be expected to withstand."

"Despite the fact that she was in the rooms of Eliza," Jeronimo said, with a few demon-contributed words about Moseh's intelligence, as well as appearance, ethnic background, and likelihood of legitimate birth. 

"Well, yes," Moseh said, gingerly touching the side of his face. "I thought my actions quite gallant, actually."

Anamaria shook her head, and passed him the bottle of wine. “That aside, how was dinner?”

“One moment,” Jeronimo said, his demon apparently frightened, for the moment, into silence by the implications of what he had just noticed. “You said five and a half hours. We were gone for nearly seven.”

“I left early,” Moseh supplied. “I thought Shaftoe and I had all we needed so I told Shaftoe to return to his room and wait there.”

Anamaria sat up again. “I was there only a moment ago, and he wasn’t. I thought he was with you, Captain.”

“How could he be with me?” Jack demanded. “I’m here!”

There was a moment of silence and then they all leapt up and – save for Jeronimo who had to stop and rebandage his jaw – ran for the door. They found Shaftoe sitting on the chaise-lounge in his room, prying off his shoes.

He grinned at them, as they half-fell into his room, tripping over each other. Shaftoe, Jack thought, took entirely too much delight in general chaos. It was something that Jack could understand, even agree with, when the mood and the setting was right, but at the moment it was unbelievably inconvenient. “Did you know,” Shaftoe said, “that many of the court ladies speak French?”

“You don’t speak French!” Anamaria said, shutting the door behind them.

“I fucking well do,” Shaftoe said in French.

“Seňora Macufino doesn’t speak French,” Moseh said helplessly. “Her understanding or speaking French was not part of the Plan.”

Shaftoe shrugged. “She learned. And I learned that the Zarazogas aren’t as rich as you thought. They might flash the family jewels, so to speak, but they’re penniless. Nothing but their good name and some land.” His grin widened. “I think the ladies are more comfortable talking without Jesús there."

“This might not be a total disaster, a slight deviation from the Plan is all,” Jack said to the rest of the party in Manhatto, which was duly translated around, avoiding anything Shaftoe might speak, more out of spite than because anything particularly sensitive was being bandied about. “He did learn something useful.”

“What did you say?” Shaftoe asked, trying to unlace his own corset and failing. “And what happened to Moseh’s face?”

“He can’t be running about with the ladies of the court on his own! You can’t expect Anamaria to do this every night, it wouldn’t work,” Moseh protested. “What about the pain in the arse?”

Shaftoe frowned. “I am nothing of the kind,” he said, and then to their worried expressions, “I speak that sort of everything.”

Moseh sighed. “Well, we’ll have to think of something, and in the mean time we’ll have to work twice as hard.”

Everyone looked suitably subdued by the prospect and Shaftoe huffed in irritation. “Stop talking about me as though I was simple,” he said. “I can manage myself. If you think the captain can make the court believe he is a man of God, then it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch to believe I can persuade people I’m a woman. So if one of you would help me out of this fucking contraption, I want to go to bed, I’m tired.”

**************** 

The next day Shaftoe accepted an invitation to take tea with a baroness of some kind, whose French was about as good as Shaftoe’s but who was, he had already gathered from his brief sojourn among the women, an incredible gossip. The note inviting him had listed the names of the other women who would be attending. One of them was the Countess de la Zeur.

“Of course,” Anamaria said.

Jack was already wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just tell Shaftoe and hope he was sane enough and man enough not to let it affect the Plan, but when he voiced that hope aloud, Moseh and Jeronimo assured him that Shaftoe was neither. Fortunately Shaftoe seemed to have no knowledge of Eliza’s titles, which meant that all they had to do in order to keep him from discovering her identity was keep either her, or him, away from the tea. Jack decided it might as well be her. If Shaftoe was going to go around garnering invitations to tea, it seemed foolish not to take full advantage, and there was no reason that he could think of for forbidding him to go.

“It’s someone else’s turn,” Anamaria said. “I’ll run messages for you, but I’m not subjecting myself to her again.”

Jack spread his hands apologetically. “She's already given me an earful,” he said. "And I doubt the woman would give me so much as the time of day, let alone a tongue-lashing lengthy enough to keep her from attending the tea. That leaves Moseh and Jeronimo. Now, Jeronimo can't respond to anything she says, which limits his ability to prolong the discussion considerably, but Moseh..."

“I’m not going on my own!” Moseh said. “Last time she hit me with a mirror, what’s to say she won’t come after me with a candlestick, or a poker?”

“Or a harpoon,” Jeronimo said dryly and the two ex-slaves shared a laugh. Jack assumed it was some sort of private joke between galley-slaves, and while being on the outside of a private joke was usually a little irritating, under the circumstances Jack felt he could hardly begrudge them this one.

“I’m sure both of you together can manage,” Jack said. 

While they intercepted Eliza, and Shaftoe took tea, Jack waited in a nicely appointed day-room, a bible open on the table in front of him for Versimilitude drinking brandy that someone had thoughtfully left lying around. He’d been there for about half an hour and he assumed Moseh and Jeronimo had been stalling Eliza with great success as he was very near to Shaftoe and the tea party and had yet to hear any shouting or shrieking. He was pouring himself a third glass when Anamaria – out of breath from running – burst into the room.

“Eliza’s coming,” she said. “They let her yell at them but they couldn’t hold her there and now she’s coming. She’s angry and she moves fast.”

“Right,” Jack said, downing the brandy. “Tell Jack I want to see him, I’ll wait in here.”

Shaftoe, Jack thought, didn’t half move slowly when he wanted to, and the door where Eliza would be coming from was opening as Shaftoe came out of the gathering. Jack grabbed him about the waist and dragged him into the day-room. He shut the door by pushing Shaftoe up against it, certain that Shaftoe had not seen Eliza, but that she had seen a figure in a dress, and him. That would make for some interesting gossip, Jack thought, hoping fervently that Eliza wouldn’t follow after them.

“Jack,” Shaftoe said, sounding annoyed.

 

******

Jack Shaftoe hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had to fend off randy buccaneers in his past. But Sparrow was by far the most persistent and unfortunately his traitorous body now seemed to think that Sparrow’s proximity warranted his own tragic version of an erection in anticipation of imminent release. Moreover, there was no need for Sparrow to start shoving him up against tables and doors like he was some sort of playhouse doxie.

“Christ you’re handsome when you’re in a snit,” Sparrow said, low, his face very close to Jack’s own, one thigh pressed maddeningly against Jack’s cock. “Here, take that ridiculous thing off.” He pulled the curls from Jack’s hair, getting his fingers into the rest of it, tugging Jack towards him and kissing him.

It was extremely queer to be kissing someone with a moustache, Jack thought. Quite out of the ordinary. He could feel Sparrow working at the overdress, pulling it off, biting at his lips, tongue in his mouth.

Sparrow was kissing him.

He shoved Sparrow back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Sparrow caught hold of his hips and turned him away from the door, backing him towards a fainting couch. “I should think that would be obvious.” Jack’s knees hit the edge of the couch and he sat, Sparrow following him down, crouched on the floor. He pushed Jack’s legs apart and pressed his hand to Jack’s Remnant through his underthings.

“I meant the kissing,” Jack complained, hips straining up against the pressure.

“I like kissing,” Sparrow said, getting close enough to lick the downward turn of Jack’s lips. “But I also enjoy your various blasphemies, exhortations, and renderings of my name – I assume it is mine, and not yours as that would be strange indeed – so by all means. Though I must stress silence, as we are likely to be discovered otherwise.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jack said. “Do you never stop talking?” He caught hold of Sparrow’s absurd Spanish beard and tugged him up. The only way, it seemed, to keep Sparrow from betraying their location with all his chatter, was to oblige him. Reciprocation, Jack thought, could include some kissing. Sparrow had suggested it, the enormous girl that he was, and Jack was feeling well-disposed towards the personage who was so eager and able to solve his difficulties. It had been a donkey’s age since he’d gotten it so regular, and for free. Sparrow, he thought grudgingly, wasn’t half bad at it either. For a man. 

“Turn over,” Sparrow said, heel of his hand still warm and firm against Jack’s cock. “Hands and knees, holding onto the arm, if you please.”

Jack did as he was told, arching his back in a stretch just to hear the way Sparrow’s breath caught in his throat. Doing it like this was much easier than with girls, Sparrow required very little in the way of encouragement and turnabout was fair play. It was unfair for him to discombobulate Jack so easily and not expect so in return. 

Sparrow slapped his thigh, hard enough to sting, but not to hurt. “Cheeky thing,” he said.

Jack dropped his head down against the armrest, the rough velvet scratching at his cheek, biting at his lip to stop from making any sort of embarrassing noise. He was half afraid Sparrow would hit him again, and half hoping he might. Instead, Sparrow shoved at Jack’s underthings until he was bare-arsed in some Spanish monarch’s day room, rubbing at his hole with a greasy finger, the strong smell of lamp oil reassuring Jack that he could relax.

“Like to get you over one of the Pearl’s cannon,” Sparrow murmured, long middle finger easing into Jack. “Kissing the gunner’s daughter we call it.” He didn’t wait for Jack to catch his breath before pushing a second finger into him.

Jack pressed his forehead harder against the couch and spread his legs wider. “In your bloody dreams, mate,” he said, panting, squirming a little. “Christ, you can do it harder.”

Instead, Sparrow pulled his fingers most of the way out, barely holding him open, thumb pressing at the smooth skin between his legs, palm cupping Jack’s arse. “Breathe in,” he said.

Jack would have argued, but Sparrow’s insane ideas regarding Jack’s body were usually spot on, so he kept his mouth shut and instead sucked in a deep lungful. Sparrow got his free hand into the laces of the corset and jerked them tighter, wrapping them around his fist. Jack’s startled twitch pushed Sparrow’s fingers hard inside of him and he gasped, breathing in again, and Sparrow wound the laces tighter still.

“Bend you over her when she’s warm from the sun,” Sparrow said, picking up his train of thought. He pushed a third finger into Jack and Jack could hear the laces creaking as he pulled on them again. 

“Jack,” Jack said, trying to breathe and finding it difficult. 

“This would be easier with both hands,” Sparrow said, long years of working at sea making it far less difficult to cinch the wretched thing tighter again than it might have been ordinarily. “We’ll try this again, if you ever agree to let me fuck you.”

He pulled hard enough that Jack lost his wind altogether as well as his grip on the couch. He sat up, tipping back into Sparrow’s chest, and oh Christ, that was another finger and Sparrow was biting a mark onto his neck, where his hair would hide it. Jack couldn’t catch his breath, stretched open and reaching behind him to hold onto Sparrow so he didn’t fall; Sparrow’s fist pressed into his back, his cock into Jack’s thigh.

“Like to fuck you like that,” Sparrow said. “Over the cannon. Give you the strap until you’re warm as she is and have you like that. You’d like it, Jack, getting fucked.” He used the arch of Jack’s spine to jerk on the corset again, rubbing at Jack’s insides until his vision was black and white behind his eyelids, red splashes every time Sparrow touched that place inside of him. “You’ll let me fuck you, won’t you Jack? Work you open like this, let me kiss that pretty mouth of yours.” 

Jack tried to tell him to shut up, that he was not pretty and did not wish to be buggered, but he clutched at Sparrow and moaned instead, coming. And as he did, Sparrow let go of the laces, and he could breathe, Sparrow catching him so he didn’t topple forwards. He was breathing, and coming, and kissing Sparrow and it was bloody marvelous.

He came back to himself as Sparrow eased his fingers out, fumbling at his own clothing, trying to kiss Jack still and touch himself. Jack managed to coordinate his limbs, which were heavy and syrupy, and he felt rather wobbly at the knees. He turned about, nearly falling off the couch and he pushed Sparrow onto his back, finishing the job of removing the offending items of clothing.

“Grab my hair and I’ll bite you,” Jack warned, still panting, and put his mouth to Sparrow.

It wasn’t half bad, Jack thought. Strange, the slick, sour taste in his mouth, and he couldn’t fit much of Sparrow's cock into his mouth before he started to choke. It didn't seem to matter though as Sparrow was biting his own fist to keep quiet and he spent before Jack could worry about his jaw getting tired. Jack considered his rather unpleasant mouthful, leaned up and kissed Sparrow again, since he seemed to like that sort of thing, and didn’t mind swallowing Jack’s seed, so he oughtn’t to mind his own.

Sparrow’s eyes were wide when Jack pulled back, a long thread of saliva connecting them before Sparrow kissed him again. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, head thudding against the couch. He passed a hand over his mouth and let out a shaky breath, as if he'd been the one half-strangled to death.

“Don’t like the taste,” Jack said, lying on top of Sparrow, between his legs, head on his chest, feet up on the arm of the couch. “You don’t like it you can suck your own prick.”

Sparrow laughed, bouncing Jack’s head a little. “No, no, that’s fair,” he said.

“Oh,” Jack added, “no way in hell you’re fucking me.” There were tendrils of hair stuck to his forehead that were extremely annoying and he blew to dislodge them. Nothing happened.

Sparrow smoothed his sweaty hair off his face for him and passed him a glass of something that smelled a lot like brandy. “If you say so Mr. Shaftoe.” He was smiling, the bastard, Jack could hear it.


	9. In Which the Countess de la Zeur is Intriguing

An exhausted Moseh, Jeronimo, and Jack Sparrow (though for slightly different reasons) had agreed that it would be best if Shaftoe left court for a few days. As well as giving them all a rest (though in slightly different ways) it would allow Shaftoe the opportunity to make an appearance in town as King of the Vagabonds before starting the blackmailing under that persona. They gave him a few messages, some trousers, and as many valuables as he could carry to take back to the Pearl. As bizarre as it seemed, the general consensus was that it was safer to have Shaftoe away from the public eye, even if it meant letting him out from under the guidance of Jack, Jeronimo, Moseh, and Anamaria. The amount of trouble he might get into on his own, while considerable, was dwarfed by the amount of chaos he might cause were he to remain at court.

“Tell them we’ve already sold half the estate,” Moseh said, handing Shaftoe a ledger. “Give that to Gibbs.”

They were congregated in Jeronimo's rooms for a change, which gave them all ample space to move around. Ampler than it had been when they first moved in, since Anamaria had been smuggling things out of the room one piece at a time, including small items of furniture, concealed in a large laundry basket. Small change, when compared with the sale of the estate, but every little bit helped, in Jack's opinion, and it gave everyone something to do. There was beginning to be a deficit of chairs, which would have been more irritating without the knowledge that said chairs were being exchanged for currency at this very moment, even as Jack leaned himself uncomfortably in an alcove that had once contained a rather exquisite carving of the Virgin Mary. The fact that these goods were not being stolen from the dead man's estate, but rather, from the court of the Spanish King, made the whole experience extremely satisfying. Jack thought he might keep one or two items as mementos. Perhaps not the Virgin Mary. 

Jeronimo shoved a sealed paper into Shaftoe’s hand. “And give that to Jamie. And don’t fucking open it you once-poxed, twice-cursed vagabond.”

Shaftoe stuffed both documents into a bag and sighed. “I can’t read, you pillock,” he said. “And I don’t want to know what you’re saying to Martingale.”

“Go cause trouble,” Jack said, shooing Shaftoe out the window before anyone could start a fight, “but don’t get arrested.” He used the moment to smack Shaftoe on the behind as he was leaving, winking as Shaftoe scowled and disappeared over the ledge.

Once Shaftoe was gone the remaining four stood about the table to engage in what Jack considered to be exceptionally dull work in regards to the estate. He let his mind wander in the meantime, pondering ways he might keep Shaftoe busy the next time his presence threatened the secrecy of the Plan. For all his complaints and hesitations, Shaftoe was clearly enjoying himself and would continue to to so, so long as he wasn't given time to work himself into a fit of prudery. His reticence at being fucked was something Jack was sure he could overcome, and while it would likely have been easier if he could simply let Shaftoe fuck him first, that wasn't an option, and Jack wasn't about to be too put out by the fact that the Remnant was the only reason he was even in with a shot at all. Or, that would have been the case had he been anyone but Captain Jack Sparrow. The point was, that he could think of several things he'd like to do to Jack Shaftoe, but several of them would require a great deal of persuasion, and all of them would be ill-advised under the watchful eye of the Inquistion.

Of course, everything they were, and were doing was ill-advised under the watchful eye of the Inquisition who, if Jack recalled correctly, frowned on pirates, Jews, Voodoo, people pretending to be priests, and men in frocks, unless those men were priests, frowned on here carrying the implication of setting on fire in the public square. So it might all be one of the same if he buggered Shaftoe, considering.

“Shame we couldn’t have him bring Martingale back,” Anamaria said thoughtfully. “If that boy liked women half as much as he liked men he could’ve kept the pain-in-the-arse busy.” Personally, Jack was skeptical enough about the Countessa's taste that he doubted she would have given Martingale a passing glance. Never had a women been so determinedly wrong about everything. 

The profanity that Jeronimo hurled at Anamaria completely obscured the meaning of his sentence. Moseh looked up when Jeronimo was finished and translated, “He’ll thank you not to speak about Martingale that way.” Jeronimo nodded, but for once his expression suggested that Moseh's translation ought to have left a few of the profanities in.

Anamaria rolled her eyes and looked as though she was going to respond when there was a knock on the door. Jeronimo hastily rebandaged his jaw and Anamaria retreated into an adjacent room. At the door was the Viscount of Valencia who stormed in, threw a glove at Jeronimo’s feet and declared that, for the honour of the countess de la Zeur he was challenging Jeronimo to a duel to the death.

Jack, in Manhatto: I pray you, what the fuck?

Jeronimo, in sign: Tell him I accept.

Moseh, in sign: No you bloody don’t!  
The same, in Manhatto: He wants to fight the duel.

Jack, in Manhatto: What does he want to do a thing like that for?

Moseh, in sign: The captain agrees with me.

Jeronimo, in sign: As long as I am bearing this man’s name I will defend it, and my own honour. Tell him I accept, the weapon I choose is swords.

Moseh, in sign: I don’t think-

Jeronimo, in sign: Tell him it, or I will.

Jack, in Manhatto: What’s going on?

Moseh, in Spanish, and with great haste: My lord accepts.

Jack, in Manhatto: He fucking what?

The duel was set for dawn the next day and, so satisfied, the Viscount of Valencia left. Moseh on the other hand was anything but satisfied, which he expressed through much invoking of the Terms of the Plan, and how Jeronimo's honour was not part of it. Jeronimo's response to that was almost as profane as his comments to Anamaria mere moments before had been.

“Have you even met him before?” Moseh asked Jeronimo.

“Eliza’s been sleeping with him,” Jack explained. “Or he thinks she might, in the future, anyway. It’s part of the Intrigue. I suppose Anamaria was very persuasive when she defamed your character.”

Before anyone could comment on that bleak situation, there was a second knock on the door. Jack checked to see if the Viscount of Valencia had forgotten something and, seeing that he hadn’t, opened the door. A wiry man in his late forties with several dueling scars was standing there, looking duty-bound, and a little enraged. Though he was clearly no gentleman, he carried a sword, and unlike a gentleman, he carried it with the air of one who knew how, and intended to, use it well and often. Jack hastily got out of his way. Much to Jack’s surprise, that way was not towards Jeronimo but towards Moseh. The man threw down his own glove and challenged Moseh to a duel over an insult to the countess de la Zeur’s honour. This seemed highly irregular to Jack. He didn't imagine that anyone had that much honour to insult, and certainly not Eliza, since she had two men fighting for it.

Moseh blinked. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“I am Antonio de la Vega, the fencing master,” the man said. “And you, sirrah, are a cad, and a violator of female virtue.” 

“Ah,” said Moseh.

“Do you accept?”

Moseh looked a little offended, and consequently as though he was considering saying yes, so Jack said, in Manhatto, “Don’t even think about it, you fool. He’s clearly an expert.”

“Yes,” Moseh said. “Only it will have to be a little after dawn, as my master is fighting a duel then.”

De la Vega the fencing master nodded curtly. “Agreed.” He turned to go and Moseh called after him, “Hatchets!”

De la Vega turned. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

Moseh shrugged. “As the challenged party I get to pick the weapon,” he said. “And so, hatchets. At fifty paces.” When de la Vega stared at him, Moseh smiled a little. “Well I’m not going to fight you with a bloody sword, am I?” he said.

“Hatchets?” Jack said, the minute the door had closed behind de la Vega. The notion that the field of honour was about to be taken by a Cabal of heathens and fraudsters was both amusing, and deeply perplexing to Jack. For starters, not a one of them had any business being there, and secondly, he was afraid that if Moseh did defend his relationship with Anamaria, with hatchets no less, then Jack would have to allow them to carry on and even give them his blessing. Not that he didn't like Moseh, he just hadn't made up his mind if he was suitable for his first mate.

“A duel!” Anamaria exclaimed, bursting into the room. “When was that made part of the Plan?” From the high colour on her face, Jack wondered if Moseh was going to even reach the field of honour or if Anamaria was going to kill him herself.

Jeronimo, having taken his bandage off again, mused, “Mad Jack’s mistress seems to have a great deal of influence in this court.”

“Hatchets?” Jack pressed.

“Hussy,” said Jeronimo.

“I’m quite good with a hatchet,” Moseh said, though this seemed to persuade Anamaria exactly as much as it did Jack, which was to say, not at all, as Moseh's aptitude at woodcutting seemed irrelevant when the entire company was being threatened with the loss of their translator, not to mention their source of the Plan. “And what about Jeronimo? He’s fighting a duel too.”

Anamaria threw up her hands. “I don’t care about him,” she said, then flushed and frowned. “No offence, Jeronimo.”

Jack sank down into a chair, unbuttoning his collar and picked up a decanter – mercifully plentiful in this part of the world – and started drinking straight from it. “How can you be ‘good with a hatchet,’” Jack asked. “It’s one thing to handle a woodpile, and I understand that the Inquisition has historickally made at least one exception for a Jew who showed an aptitude for carpentry, but whatever your current pseudonym may be 'Jesús,' this is another matter altogether.”

Jeronimo drew his sword and assumed a fencing stance. “I can assure you, you needn’t worry about me, at least,” he said using their abundance of space to demonstrate his skill with a blade by fencing his own shadow.

The door banged open and Jack looked up wearily, decanter raised halfway to his lips. “I’m a priest, mate, you can’t challenge me,” he said before realizing the intruder was Eliza. “Oh,” he said.

She was gaping at them in a rather unladylike fashion and looked as though she couldn’t decide if she wanted to be horrified, furious, or confused. Jack took a moment to consider what they must look like from an outsider’s perspective. Jeronimo was still standing with his sword drawn, his jaw clearly unbandaged. Moseh had a hand on Anamaria’s shoulder and she looked flushed and unhappy. Jack himself was in disarray and though he was fairly certain that the undone collar didn’t show the gunshot wounds on his shoulder, he was also fairly certain that she could see one of his tattoos. Also, his sleeves were rolled up. He surreptitiously turned his arm over so that his brand and the sun and bird tattoo weren’t visible.

It looked admittedly bad, but even Jack would have been hard-pressed to say what sort of bad that would be.

Abruptly everyone galvanized into action. If the Cabal had one advantage, Jack had lately decided, it was that despite their rigid reliance on a Plan, they all seemed to form new Plans as fast as the old one was proven useless, and were thus as admirable in their improvisation as they were in their preparation. When confronted with Eliza, of course, there was very little that could be done. Jeronimo sheathed his sword and Anamaria rushed to help him bandage his jaw. Jack set the decanter down and fixed his sleeves.

“Can we help you?” Moseh asked.

Eliza recovered quickly. “I trust you have both received challenges. I’m sure they had their own reasons for doing so, but know that I had expressed my displeasure to them about you. I don’t know why you are keeping my friend from me, or what happened here, but you are clearly engaged in strange and degenerate behavior and I will discover what and why.” She rounded on Jack, who was doing his best to look priestly. "I have spoken to you once before," she said, "about the sins of those here gathered. When justice is served upon the field of honor, let their deaths, together with the suffering of this poor girl, be on your head." She gave them all one last scathing look before saying to Anamaria, “Courage!” and sweeping from the room.

Everyone was silent for a moment and then Anamaria said, “She thinks she’s helping me, but I’ve had beatings that were more helpful.”

“How so?” Jeronimo asked in sign, through Moseh.

“Think about it,” Anamaria said as Jack took a fortifying belt of brandy. “If you did own me then wouldn’t all this just make it more likely that you’d mistreat me? No one starts duels over not being able to see their friend.”

Jack laughed. “I might, if they were with us. We’re going to have to be more careful because that, a moment ago, did not look good.”

******

Jack Shaftoe had never been so grateful for a pair of trousers in his life. Well, he amended, there had been that one winter, but it had been cold and how he had come to be without them in the first place was another story altogether. As grateful as he was for the trousers, they were currently around his ankles, displaying his Credential for all of a public square to see. It had been quite some time since said organ had been on publick display, but Jack was delighted to see that it still garnered the interest, horror, and recognition it had always done.

“I am half-cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds!” Jack declared to the square at large, pulling his trousers up, as a speedy exit was likely going to be necessary. “And I have returned from the dead!”

He lept up onto the back of a hay wagon, knocked the driver - a gangly young lad with a dim-witted cast to his face - out of his seat, and pulled out the pistol he had nicked from Sparrow. It was only loaded with powder, but when he fired it, it spooked the horses enough that they started running for it. Jack noticed that the spark had also set the dry, brittle hay on fire and it was starting to blaze around him. Hay burned fast and well; apart from its qualities as a source of bedding, that was quite its best feature, and Jack had often wondered how a substance so delightfully flammable seemed to be so readily available, filling barns and choking streets all across the known world. He clambered forwards on the cart as best he could as the horses, well and truly terrified now, were tearing through a market, crashing the cart into vendors and stalls, setting them on fire, with the trail of burning straw behind him.

Pulling on the reins like a charioteer, Jack stood up on the seat and cracked the whip, entirely unnecessarily, over the horses’ heads. He had planned to stay where he was for at least a little while, but it was starting to seem like a bad idea, since he suspected the cart would overturn sooner or later and no doubt the Inquisition or other officials would be poking their noses into other peoples' business. He hoped the Imp was enjoying itself; it hadn’t said much of anything since he’d dropped trou in the main square.

Jack half-jumped, half was thrown from the cart and landed amongst the wares of a live chicken vendor. The cages did not make for a soft landing, and several of them broke open under the impact, and during the subsequent clambering to his feet, unleashing live chickens all over as the burning hay cart careened around a corner, smouldering straw marking its passing.

Jack wished it, and the horses, Godspeed and dashed off around another corner, trusting the chaos behind him would cover his escape. Stray dogs, attracted by the chickens, but afraid of the fires were getting underfoot as vendors tried to secure their goods or retrieve that which had been lost as the cart smashed into stalls. Jack was certain that he’d made enough of a mess that people would remember who he was and that news of his arrival in Spain would reach the palace eventually. If Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe was going to be running a blackmail operation, it only made sense for people to be reminded of who Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe was beforehand, else there would be no end of confusion and introductions.

A good deal of running later and Jack found himself back at the docks where he could row out and rejoin the Pearl. They were expecting him back – he’d already been and gone, leaving his messages and sundries behind – so he could pick up return messages and sleep somewhere that wasn’t a mouldering dockside inn (or, more likely, a mouldering dockside barn, alley or rooftop) before going back to the palace to begin the blackmail in the morning. Jack had avoided any real conversation with the crew aboard ship, since the only ones Jack really knew were Martingale, who had stuck him with pins and implied he was a sodomite, and Gabriel, who had taught the rest of them to be Catholics, and he had scarce enough fond memories of either of them. It struck Jack that he didn’t have to go back to the Pearl. He could get on any ship looking for hands, or he could head inland. Since there was no one else to consult, Jack looked to the Imp for advice. Not that it was a reliable source but at least it was another opinion to consider.

Eternally contrary, the Imp was nowhere to be seen.

“Lot of good you are,” Jack complained to it nevertheless, tugging his jacket closer around himself. Winter was coming, he thought, better bear that in mind.

The Imp, looking very pleased with itself, finally made its appearance. It shrugged.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked, mimicking it. “Don't shrug at me. You must have an opinion, or a preference.”

The Imp held up its hands, like a weighing scale. Stay it said, raising one hand, Stay and fool the court and all the King’s men and be here an’ be Jack an’ with Jack. It leveled its hands, then tipped the imaginary scale in the opposite direction. Go ‘way, go far an’ wide and see what you’ve missed and what’s new and wherever we want to go. Instead of miming any further, the Imp clapped its hands together. O’ aren’t we having fun now?

Jack asked himself what Bob would do. Jack could muster up no image other than a stern reprimand to go home and take care of his boys, which didn't sound particularly appealing, or likely to occur. “I can’t leave now,” Jack decided. “Not when I’m finally getting a hang of fan language. ‘Sides, I’ve seen Europe, and I imagine it’ll be there awhile still.”

Sparrow had given him money to hire a boat out to the Pearl but Jack had been a mudlark, so he saved the coin by swimming instead. The water was warm and foul with the runoff from the city, but nothing in comparison to the filth of London and Jack was soon to the ship and up the anchor cable. He startled the watch as he climbed aboard and Jamie Martingale nearly put a pistol ball through his head.

“You’re back early,” Martingale remarked, stowing his pistol. “I haven’t finished my reply to Jeronimo’s letter yet, so you’ll have to wait, and I think Mr. Gibbs wants a word.”

Jack shrugged, wringing out his shirt. “You’ve got all night,” he said. “I’m sleeping here.”

Martingale settled back onto the fishdavit, a piece of nautical hardware whose use Jack had yet to ascertain, to resume his watch. “You can sling a hammock in the foc’s’le or the gundeck,” he said. “Or there’s always the captain’s bunk, if that’s more what you’re used to these days.”

Jack looked up from wringing water out of his weskit, startled. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

Martingale laughed and Jack wanted to hit him in his pretty, smug face, except he was a little worried that Jeronimo would murder him. “That’s what I thought,” Martingale said. “How is the captain anyway?”

“A poor excuse for a priest,” Jack muttered and climbed down off the foredeck before Jamie fucking Martingale could laugh at him any more.

He found Mr. Gibbs in the waist, still studying the papers Moseh had given him in the dwindling light from the sun. “Good to have you back,” Gibbs said, as though he hadn’t expected Jack to be at all reliable. "But it's bad luck to go violatin' the sanctity of the confessional for the sake of blackmail. Especially while disguised as a Jesuit. No good'll come of it."

Jack grunted a hallo and went in search of a hammock. Whether he had made the right choice, or indeed, if there was any choice to be made, the Imp plagued him the whole night through with dreams of Jack Sparrow.


	10. In Which Violence Solves Everything but Fixes Nothing

The sky was lightening though the sun had not yet come over the horizon and the dueling ground was still wet with dew. Jeronimo was limbering up and, to one side, Jack Sparrow was already a little squiffy. His nerves, which had been twanging like topmast shrouds in heavy winds since the challenges had been given, were relaxing slightly under the influence of the alcohol, but he was nowhere near drunk enough to consider what was about to happen a Good Idea. He was standing with Moseh who, because of his own duel later, was not joining Jack in his state of inebriation, but looked as though he would rather have liked to.

"What sort of alteration to the Plan will we have to make," Jack said in Manhatto, "if Jeronimo is, say, gutted?"

"Hope he takes long enough to die that I can kick his arse for fighting a duel. Other than that?" Moseh shrugged. "The Plan doesn't really have a contingency in the event of one of our party behaving with suicidal imbecility."

Jack winced. "Don't be too glib, you're next."

"I'm not going to lose," Moseh said. "At least, I don't think so." He looked less sure of himself than he sounded, Jack thought; no doubt the sight of the dueling ground; lush with grass that had been watered with centuries of noble blood, was causing some slight doubt in his mind.

Eliza was the next to arrive, surrounded by a small entourage of servants and hangers on. Jack was half expecting her to come over and say something but she just glared at them in a morally superior sort of way and settled herself in a position to watch. Jack grinned unpleasantly, something he would have been sensible enough not to do had be been entirely sober, but that was the disadvantage of Dutch courage; it did not discriminate when it came to the areas in which it might embolden one. Either way, Eliza did not react to Jack's display of hostility, and her champion (the first one, that is) soon arrived. The Viscount of Valencia, looking aristocratically annoyed at having to wake up at such an inconvenient hour merely to slay some ignoble miscreant joined Jeronimo in limbering up for the fight by swinging a sword about while Eliza made a fuss over him. Jack watched them, trying to determine who was the better swordsman, but he didn't precisely know how to fence so it was hard to judge; the technique for hacking one's opponent to death with a heavy cutlass being significantly different from the one involved in actual fencing. Jack was fairly sure that parrying was involved, and perhaps feinting, but he wouldn't have sworn to it. Certainly the challenger seemed to know what he was doing.

The Viscount of Valencia had offered Jeronimo a handicap because of his supposed injury, but Jeronimo had refused. The rest of the court took this as very gallant indeed. Jack thought it was very stupid indeed. To refuse an advantage when it was offered suggested that Jeronimo was no true aristocrat after all; surely men did not become, or remain rich and powerful by doing foolish things like that. Jack had pressed Jeronimo to take the advantage but Jeronimo had refused again, on the grounds that because his jaw was not actually broken it would be unchivalrous to accept. Jack had a few choice things to say about chivalry but he kept those to himself as they weren't his guts about to be all over the grass.

The duelists met in the centre of the field. The usual speeches were given - will you retract the insult - I will not - will you admit wrongdoing - I will not etcetera, with Moseh translating for Jeronimo. When Moseh came back to the sidelines where Jack was waiting he shook his head sadly.

"I told him to stand down," Moseh said. He was holding one fist tightly at his side, as though concealing something in his hand. "And of course he wouldn't, and threatened to take his bandage off and announce the fact himself if I didn't say so for him. So the duel is on, I'm afraid. To the death." Moseh opened his hand, revealing a much-folded piece of paper. "He also asked that I give Martingale this, in the event of his losing. I had thought him rather more confident than that. I'm not sure we've been fully aware of what he's gotten himself into."

Jack took a surreptitious swig from his flask, trying to disguise it as a cough, and the duel began. First blood, to Jack's surprise, went to Jeronimo, who sliced a short, shallow cut on his opponent's arm as the Viscount brought his arm up to parry a thrust that turned out to be a feint. Jack remembered just in the nick of time that he was supposed to be a priest, and therefore an impartial, and vaguely disapproving observer rather than an enthusiastic spectator, and so did not get out of his seat and cheer, though it was a near thing, and Eliza turned to give him a dirty look.

There was more parrying, feinting and thrusting for a few agonizing seconds, the breath of the contestants steaming in the cold morning air. Jeronimo was forced back a few paces, then did a bit of rather fancy footwork that Jack couldn't quite comprehend, and drove his opponent back. It seemed to have been a trick, though, and the the Viscount scored open a long cut on Jeronimo's leg. Letter aside, Jack wondered how the hell he was going to explain everything to Jamie Martingale before he realized that the tip of Jeronimo's sword was sticking out of his opponent's back.

The Viscount of Valencia sank to his knees as Jeronimo pulled his sword from his chest and the court physician ran forward to attend to the fallen man. Jeronimo limped over to Jack and Moseh, one hand pressed against the wound, and awkwardly signed something which Moseh muttered in translation as, "I told you not to worry," before sinking to the ground. A servant ran up to attend to his injury, as the physician was clearly busy, but Jack had never put any particular trust in physicians, and considered that Jeronimo was better off in the hands of a practical man who could understand the principle that if there was blood coming out of a man, it was a good idea to try and put a stop to it. Jack surreptitiously gave Jeronimo a triumphant nod while the servant bound a cloth around his leg, and signed what he hoped (for his grasp of the language was still shaky) were the words "knew you could do it, mate."

The physician lowered Valencia, who had still shown no sign of improvement, and indeed seemed to be looking rather paler than was generally healthy, to the ground and looked up at the crowd. "Father," he called, and it wasn't until several people nearby were looking at him that Jack realized he was the only priest there. He looked helplessly at Moseh, who made a sort of "run along" gesture, without giving any indication of what Jack ought to do when he got there. 

"Gabriel never taught me this," Jack said to himself, but hurried over to the dying man's side, trying to remember if Last Rites and Extreme Unction were the same thing, and if so, what in the Hell Extreme Unction was.

Jack may not have known how to give the Last Rites, but he had seen enough men mortally wounded to know that Valencia had been struck close to the heart and would bleed to death before long. His mouth was opening and shutting without much in the way of sound, and he was hacking up blood from time to time, which suggested he might have been stabbed through the lung. It did not seem to Jack that Valencia even knew he was there, but the physician was looking at him expectantly so Jack knelt in the grass and took the man's hand, trying to look holy. The physician withdrew a few respectful paces away and Jack took that to be a confirmation of his own prognosis.

"Sorry, mate," Jack said, feeling, for the first time, that there might be certain offices that should be performed by someone who actually knew how to do them. "Sorry. Priest'll be here soon, honest."

The dying man gave a nod that might've been a muscle spasm, coughed up a throatful of blood, and died. Jack closed the man's eyes and placed his hand across his chest. "Sorry mate," Jack said again. He couldn't be sorry the man was dead, he and Jeronimo had got themselves into it, against Jack's wishes, but he regretted that Valencia hadn't had a real priest to see him off, and instead had a drunken pirate. There were few enough things in life a man ought to be able to rely on, but a priest at his death bed, or at any rate, the field where he was dying, should be someone a man could trust, Jack thought. For the first time, Jack felt bad about the masquerade. It was small harm, all things considered, he told himself, after all, the man would have died with or without a real priest to comfort him, but if Valencia had believed his whole life that his soul would be heading off to some eternal rest it seemed indecent to leave him stuck with an impostor to help him get there just when he was in greatest need. "Rest in peace," Jack said, crossed himself, and got up. He sat by himself a little ways to the side while Jeronimo got his leg seen to by the physician. The whole fight had taken only minutes and the fencing master wouldn't arrive for another half hour. Jack spent the intervening time brooding about the many ways a man's restless spirit might haunt the man who'd failed to give him his final bit of peace, while Moseh seemed to be mostly staring at Jeronimo's wound, and gradually losing his confidence. When the fencing master finally did arrive, Moseh came over to talk to Jack. In addition to brooding, Jack had used the intervening time to get scorchingly drunk, something he found helped him work through philosphickal issues.

"If I do lose," Moseh said, fidgeting with the crucifix around his neck, "please refrain from giving me the Last Rites. I know you've got to maintain the charade, but if you could wait until after I've actually breathed my last, I would appreciate it. I don't particularly want the last thing I ever see to be a pirate making the sign of the cross at me."

Jack waved a hand in Moseh's general direction. "Not a problem," he said morosely. "As it happens, you're in no danger of me performing priestly offices on your person. And on the odd chance that you're not a complete lunatick, and actually do stand a chance of surviving this fight, would you perhaps mind leaving de la Vega alive? Hit him in the shoulder or something."

Moseh considered for a moment. "Better not," he said. "Man makes his living as a fencing instructor. I'll aim for his leg."

Jack nodded like he had a bloody clue what Moseh was talking about imagining two men swinging hatchets at each other like they were trying to fell trees. The Vikings had fought with axes, hadn't they? He was on the verge of asking Moseh if that was the sort of thing he had in mind, but decided he'd rather not know; he'd find out soon enough and in the interim he preferred to not think about it, a goal with which the liquor was certainly helping. He wished Moseh luck instead, and sent his friend to his duel.

Moseh and de la Vega chose their weapons: two battered hatchets that looked like they'd been very recently used to chop wood and had only just been rounded up for the day's event. The men separated fifty paces and the fencing master assumed a fighting stance that suggested he had at least practiced with the weapon the night before. His posture certainly supported Jack's Viking theory; he looked as though he could potentially hack through shields and helmets, should the need arise. Moseh simply stood there, hefting the hatchet to get the weight of it. When the man with the white handkerchief said they could begin, de la Vega advanced a few steps in a low fighting crouch and still Moseh stood there. For a horrible moment, Jack was sure that Moseh had lost his nerve entirely, and was about to be cut down.

The fencing master advanced another step before Moseh, tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, stepped back with one foot, raised the hatchet over his head, and flung it at de la Vega. The hatchet went spinning through the air, end over end in a long, precise parabola. And though it seemed an even chance of the thing going either way, the blade, not the handle, was the end that struck its target. Moseh looked almost as surprised as anyone, though that might simply have been relief.

What was it, Jack wondered, with certain men he knew and their insistence on throwing edged weapons? Swords, hatchets, the lot; certain people seemed never to have grasped the concept that a weapon in one's hand was worth two flying through the air, as far as keeping yourself alive should your first attempt fail. He had never asked Will about it, but perhaps, since Moseh now seemed quite likely to survive the day, he would get the chance to ask him. Whatever it was, it was certainly effective, as de la Vega was now lying on the ground, the head of Moseh's hatchet buried in his thigh. Since they were finished, and Jack's flask was empty, he rejoined Moseh and Jeronimo to do penance for his sins and congratulate them both with a bottle of wine, which, now that the fighting was done, they both seemed more than willing to enjoy. Jeronimo looked slightly less baffled by what had just happened than Jack felt, and no the worse for his injury, besides a certain difficulty standing. Jack could see Eliza, as they left the field, and she looked thoroughly stymied, and not, Jack thought, as sorry as she ought to be that a man had died because of her. 

Fueled in part, perhaps, by that same Dutch courage that had led him to give her unpleasant looks earlier, Jack dodged his friends and stepped into the interfering woman's path. "You have now sent two men to fight for you," he said, drawing on every bit of self-righteous tone and language he had ever half-heard from open church doors and itinerant street preachers. "To defend the accusations you have made. Both of those men lost, and one of them is dead. Two men have been seriously wounded. Before this travesty began, you dared to suggest that their deaths would be on my head. I put it to you, madam, that in the results of this duel, you have been proven grievously mistaken. There is much blood on your conscience, milady. May God have mercy on you." Satisfied that perhaps he wouldn't make a half-bad priest after all, Jack caught up with Moseh and Jeronimo, an easy feat as they had only three legs between them. He got on Jeronimo's other side, and lent him a shoulder. "I trust there'll be no more of that," he said, as he and Moseh half-carried the triumphant Jeronimo back to his rooms to recuperate.

******

When Jack Shaftoe climbed in the window of Sparrow's room, of the many things he had expected, Moseh, Anamaria, Jeronimo -with his leg in a bandage - and Sparrow sitting around celebrating something, was not one of them. The door was locked and barred, and taking advantage of the relative privacy (not counting vagabonds who might be snooping at the window, which was a fair enough thing to overlook, considering they were on the fourth floor), both Moseh and Sparrow had taken off their crosses, and Sparrow had stripped down to breeches, something he never seemed to need much of an excuse to do. They were all drinking.

"What'd I miss?" Jack asked, hopping down off the sill. By all appearances, it had been an extremely eventful two days while he had been away. Which was seldom the way of things, as far as Jack was concerned. Generally, to the best of his knowledge, things got boring when he was gone and became interesting again when he returned, and he rather resented the idea that something interesting might occur while he was absent.

As he had come through the window, all present had taken immediate defensive action. Jeronimo had reached for the bandage for his jaw. Anamaria had lept away from Moseh who had in turn lunged for his crucifix. Jack Sparrow, whose mind evidently ran more towards violence than concealment than did that of the others, remained where he was, half-dressed, bottle of wine in his hand, and a pistol in the other, which was pointed at Jack. 

"Oh," Sparrow said, uncocking the gun, just as Jeronimo dropped the bandage, Moseh the crucifix, and Anamaria the pretense of domestic servitude. "It's you. What are you doing here?"

Jack snagged the bottle from Sparrow and took a swig. "Scaring all of you, apparently," he said with some satisfaction, as the others settled back down.

"Do you have a letter for me?" Jeronimo asked, face twitching more than usual. No sooner had Jack produced it then Jeronimo left the room, once again picking up his bandage in order to lash his jaw shut. He was walking with the aid of a stick, Jack couldn't help noticing, which was new, and suggested that the bandage on his leg indicated at least a somewhat serious injury. Sparrow barred the door behind the Spaniard and then took his seat.

"One hell of a letter if he can't even read it in front of us," Jack said. "What happened to his leg?"

"Duel," Sparrow said. "He won."

Jack ignored Sparrow's attempts to reclaim the bottle. "What started it? His demon say something?"

"Nothing like that," Moseh said. "Someone, ah, questioned your honour."

Sparrow, while Jack was laughing, stole the bottle back, touching his arm and shoulder more than, Jack suspected, was strictly necessary. "Suggested you were dallying with the priest," Sparrow elaborated. "Hard to see where they might have got that idea, but as I say, he won, so your reputation as a chaste and virtuous woman is entirely intact. Dalliances aside."

"We haven't dallied," Jack protested.

Sparrow lounged back in his seat and gave Jack a rather inflammatory look. "Oh we've dallied," he said. "We just haven't fucked."

Anamaria got hurriedly to her feet. "Moseh," she said, "we both have that thing we have to do." Moseh, aided by her pulling at his arm, also rose and managed half a goodbye before Anamaria had pulled him from the room.

"Now see here, Jack," Jack said.

"A man died over this," Sparrow said. "Least you could do is admit it's happening. Unless you'd rather stop."

“Here, I’ve brought you your ledger and a note from Gibbs,” Jack said, deciding that evasion was the better part of valour. He produced the ledger and a few other notes and set them on the table. Then he wished he hadn’t, as he was suddenly, vividly, remembering how the table had felt under him, while Sparrow’s hands and mouth were ‘pon him. He could remember the feeling of Sparrow’s body pressed against his own, and Sparrow’s teeth set against the back of his neck. He knew the taste of Sparrow’s cock, and the sound of his heart thudding in his chest as Jack had shared the couch with him afterwards. Sparrow had saved him from the Oar, and from boredom, and had given him relief. 

They had dallied, Jack knew that. It didn’t mean they had to go around talking about it.

“Would you?” Sparrow pressed, putting the wine down. “Rather we stop?” His tangles of hair hung about his face, hiding most of it from Jack’s view.

“You’re too drunk to do anything,” Jack said uncomfortably.

Sparrow leaned back in his seat. In the bright light of the afternoon he was cast in sharp relief, shadowed and near-glowing. He slung one leg over the arm of the chair, bare foot dangling lazily and put a hand on his cock, rubbing himself through his breeches. “I doubt that very much,” he said. “And so, Mr. Shaftoe, it is up to you. Are we dallying, or are we not?”

Jack watched as Sparrow’s prick swelled under the thin cloth of his trews. He was struck, then, with a satisfactory solution to his predicament; that was to say, that he did not want Sparrow to think of him as though he was some sort of half-man, to be treated like a fractious girl. If they were to continue, and chastity would have been a rather puritanical thing to inflict upon himself when he needn’t, then it all had to be on more equal footing.

Jack stood up and Sparrow sighed. “Be a good fellow and shut the door behind you then,” Sparrow said, flicking open the fastenings to his underthings. “I might as well finish what I’ve started.”

“Who said I was going anywhere?” Jack asked and smirked at Sparrow’s dumbfounded expression. “Shift yourself to the bed, eh?”

Sparrow did as bid, letting his clothing fall to the hideous throw rug as he went, leaving him bare on the narrow cot. His body was dark from the sun, and darker still from the ink splashed across him in heathen patterns and nautickal pictures, save for the lighter skin of his hips and thighs. He was lean muscle and his cock curved up towards his belly. Jack crawled up onto the bed, between his thighs and put one hand on the line on Jack’s stomach where his skin darkened.

“It will make things considerably more difficult if you leave those on,” Sparrow said plucking at the fabric of Jack’s trousers.

“Later,” Jack said, continuing to look his fill upon Sparrow’s body. There was no pretending Sparrow was a woman, but then, Jack hadn’t hardly tried. Not from the first feel of Sparrow’s callused hands spreading him open. He was a strange man, captain Jack Sparrow, but he was a strange man that Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds, found arousing to look at.

“Will you kiss me again, Jack?” Sparrow asked. 

“You and kisses,” Jack groused, but put his hands on either side of Sparrow’s head and kissed him. Sparrow arched up into him, hands pushing up under Jack’s shirt to clutch at his scarred back. 

Sparrow sighed happily into his mouth and Jack dropped down so he was pressed against Sparrow from foot to chest, feeling the heat of his body and the way he moved against Jack, little gasps when his cock bumped over the rough laces of Jack’s trousers. 

“Christ,” Sparrow said, sounding frustrated, and hauled Jack’s shirt up so Jack was blinded for a moment. He sat back and shrugged the garment off, dropping it on Sparrow, and when Sparrow was busy throwing the fabric away from them, Jack snagged the Chrism from where it lay amongst the pirates’ weapons. He tipped some over his hand, spilling it on the sheets, and over Sparrow’s hips and cock. “What?” Sparrow started to say, but Jack shut him up with more kisses.

“Let me,” Jack said, curling his hand around Sparrow’s cock. He let Sparrow thrust up into his fist for a bit, biting at the corner of his jaw, listening to Sparrow’s quiet groans.

He’d put his fingers in himself, once, and hadn’t much cared for the experience, but Sparrow had done a rather better job of it, so Jack had decided it must be all in the angle. He let go of Sparrow’s cock and traced a slick line back to his hole. He was going to ask, but Sparrow tipped his head back, baring his throat and said their name in a surprised, desperate voice, so Jack pushed into him. One finger, and then two, until Sparrow wasn’t kissing him anymore, so much as panting against his mouth. 

Jack liked to think he’d been more than alright before he’d become half-cocked, and watching Sparrow come apart because of him, even if it was his hand and not his prick doing the job, had the Remnant swollen and thick with blood. He drew away with great reluctance.

“Why are you stopping?” Sparrow asked, eyes flying open. “Don’t stop.”

Jack shucked his trousers off, dropping them on the floor and wondering if he wasn’t doing something incredibly stupid, put the head of Sparrow’s prick against his own hole and pressed down. Sparrow’s fingers were going to leave dents in his thighs, he was sure of it, bruises at the very least.

“Jack,” Sparrow said.

Jack hissed out a breath. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever felt. It wasn’t as bad, as say, rowing on a galley. Sparrow’s cock felt much bigger when it was shoving inside him. Then Sparrow’s knees came up, giving him something to lean back against, and Sparrow was smoothing his hair back, rubbing the crease between his eyebrows, petting over his chest. He looked up at Jack like he was something marvelous.

“I’m an idiot,” Jack said, pushing down a little more, hands on Sparrow’s shoulders to stop him from falling over. “I should be locked up, letting you talk me into this.”

Sparrow’s laugh was breathless. “Any day I can talk you into fucking is a good day, sweetheart,” he said. “Can you move a bit more?”

Jack pinched him. “I will get up and leave,” he warned, even though he wasn’t sure that would feel very good either. It wasn’t bad, but- Oh. Jack slid down, muscles in his thighs already protesting. He leaned back against Sparrow’s knees, arse resting against Sparrow’s pelvis. 

Sparrow groaned, pushing up into him in little spasms. Jack felt too full, and sore, and Sparrow’s cock was pushing up against that wonderful place inside of him, as he’d promised, and it wasn’t enough, all of a sudden. Jack tipped forwards again, grinding down, before rising up on his knees, fucking himself on Sparrow’s cock. Sparrow dug his heels into the sheets and caught Jack around the back of the neck, so they were shoving into each other and against each other.

Jack leaned forwards far enough that he could kiss Sparrow and Sparrow’s cock pressed inside of him, deep and perfect, and the Remnant dragged over the hard muscle of Sparrow’s stomach, and the scratch of hair. He bit Sparrow’s bottom lip so he wouldn’t shout as he came, hot and wet over them both.

Sparrow sat up then, arms around Jack, and Jack cried out at the change of angle, the Remnant issuing another thick bead of come. Sparrow thrust up into him, face pressed to his shoulder until he stiffened and relaxed against Jack. They fell together against the bed, and Jack squirmed until Sparrow slid out of him but refused to move from his comfortable place atop Sparrow when Sparrow made a similar hint.

“So much for your honour,” Sparrow said.


	11. In Which is Revealed the Perils of Allowing Oneself to Become Distracted

Blackmail, or so Jack Shaftoe had heard, was a delicate art requiring subtlety, secrecy and finesse.

“My name is half-cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds,” Jack declared, standing over the bed of the Duchess of Catalunya, one hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming, “and I can see through walls." Her response was the expected muffled complaints, which he ignored. "I know what is going on between you and Fernando, and my silence is expensive. Yours, when I remove my hand, is required. Do you understand?"

Her husband, who was as dead drunk as court gossip had led Jack to understand he would be, did not stir in the bed beside her. She nodded and Jack removed his hand. This business of being menacing was far easier than it looked, especially when one had the benefit of cover of night, and a reputation.

"Tomorrow," Jack said, "before you retire, you will place a bag containing an amount equivalent to double what Fernando pays you annually for your company, in gold, outside your door. It will be collected, and my silence will be maintained." Jack grinned at her and moved back towards the window he had climbed in. "And if it's not there by three o'clock, I'll tell everyone what I know. Especially him," he said nodding at her husband. "Sweet dreams." He climbed back out the window and shimmied up the rope he had waiting there, and onto the slate-covered palace roof. The moon was bright, and Jack darted across the rooftops with all the skill of a man who had spent his entire life either entering, or leaving, buildings without the permission of the relevant parties. He reveled in the freedom, not just of being outside of the closed-in world of the inside of the palace, but of having left behind That Wretched Dress, an article of clothing he had not seen the inside of since his trip to the Pearl. If he could make himself useful enough without it, he was hoping that the rest of the company would forget about it entirely. Certainly he had been able to persuade Sparrow of his appeal un-Dressed, but he doubted that the rest of the Cabal would find that a similarly compelling argument, even if he had wanted them to know a damn thing about it.

Jack repeated the stand-over-the-bed-and-menace procedure more of less verbatim a few more times. He left a prewritten note pinned to the collar of the recipient in one room and was forced to abandon one victim altogether as he and his wife were otherwise occupied and Jack did not feel like waiting, or interrupting. A few hours after midnight, Jack pushed open the window to Sparrow's room and stepped inside.

Sparrow was sleeping, sprawled on his back on the narrow cot, one arm hanging off the side. His face was relaxed, white lines etched into the tan in the corner of his eyes from smiling, one corner of his moustache turned up, the other down. He was bare, one corner of the sheet tangled about his left thigh, doing absolutely nothing to preserve his modesty, and the dark scrawl of his tattoos and the red-white scars on his body were as much a book of India as ever Jack couldn’t read. But not just India, no, further still and who knew where he had been, or where they might go. There were faint bruises on Sparrow’s hips and that was a moment written down that Jack had been part of, something that would fade into Sparrow’s history, become part of the secrets and legend.

He wanted to shake Sparrow awake and ask about the blacksmith who married a noblewoman, the voodoo priestess who scared even Anamaria, why he was called Sparrow and had a swallow tattooed on his arm, how he got his pirate brand, what was so special about the Pearl that he’d followed after her for ten years. Had he followed her for ten years truly? There were stories and the truths behind them, and Jack wanted to know them both.

He wanted to tell Sparrow about growing up in London, about Bob (and poor, dead, Dick), the dizzying journey across Europe with Eliza and how he himself had no idea what had been real and what had been madness. He wanted Jack to know about the Imp, so he’d stop nagging about Jack’s “unladylike twitch.”

This strange desire for the truth was not something that Jack found himself afflicted with often. Or ever, in his hazy recollections. He hesitated, standing over Sparrow’s sleeping form, sure that this urge to shake Sparrow awake and get him drunk, get him out onto the streets of Mentirosos and cause trouble was not a bad one, but he wary of it. Rarely did he want to involve someone else in his adventures, though it was altogether possible that he was, in fact, on Sparrow’s adventure.

Either way, his body was alight with energy despite the late hour and so he put his hand over Sparrow’s mouth, the other pinning Sparrow’s wrist to the bed. “My name is Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds,” Jack said when Sparrow’s eyes opened and he jerked against Jack’s hold. “And I know you for a pirate, and a thief, and a lover of men. What will you give me for my silence?” Under him, Sparrow relaxed, eyes crinkling up in a smile and he licked at the palm of Jack’s hand. 

Jack pulled his hand away, wiping it on his trowsers and Sparrow blinked up at him through his lashes. “That’s quite good,” Sparrow said, fingers creeping up Jack’s thigh, hooking into a pocket to pull him onto the bed. “I’m quite intimidated.”

“I know,” Jack said, letting Sparrow roll him over, so Sparrow was sitting on his thighs and he was lying on the warm sheets where Sparrow had been.

“I’m compelled to succumb to your desires,” Sparrow said, and leaned over so his hair hung in a dark curtain on either side of Jack’s face. They were close enough that Jack had to close his eyes, and Sparrow’s moustache and lips brushed his whenever he spoke. “I shall give you your prize Your Majesty, and take my own as I am, as you said, a pirate and a thief.”

******

Jack Sparrow wasn’t sure that this was what Anamaria had had in mind when she gave him a gris-gris for success, but he’d have to thank her anyway. He stripped Shaftoe bare and knelt between his strong thighs, hands dark against the pale of Shaftoe’s fair skin. The bed was narrow so one of Shaftoe’s dirty feet was on the floor, his other leg was hooked over Jack’s back, heel digging into the curve of Jack’s spine.

“Is this my prize or yours?” Shaftoe asked. His skin was damp with sweat from climbing around on rooftops and Jack pressed his face into the bend of his throat and shoulder, and dragged his tongue over Shaftoe’s skin. 

“I don’t know,” Jack confessed, biting at the curve of Shaftoe’s ear. “What would you like?”

Shaftoe’s hands were still rougher than they ought to be for the masquerade, and they clutched at Jack’s neck and shoulder. “Christ,” he said, tipping his head back, baring his throat for Jack, sliding his foot down Jack’s spine, and over the rise of his arse. “I wish I could fuck you.”

Jack flinched from the twist of lust in his stomach, pressing his cock against Shaftoe’s Remnant. He didn’t say that he wished for that too, because that was cruel. Then Shaftoe used his leg to haul Jack further up his body, pressing down against him.

“Put your foot on the floor,” Shaftoe said, pulling and pushing at Jack until Jack was propped up on elbows, one on either side of Shaftoe’s head, most of his weight on his pelvis, and cock, one foot on the floor, the other leg stuck in the crack between the wall and the bed. He squirmed against Shaftoe, trying not to just start thrusting until he spent.

Shaftoe bit at his mouth, teeth scraping over the side of his jaw, and greased fingers pressed into Jack. He groaned, squirming against Shaftoe, feeling stretched open and off-balance as Shaftoe hooked their ankles together and pulled his thighs further apart almost all his weight was on Shaftoe.

“Jack,” Jack panted. “O’ your hands, Jack, your marvellous fingers. You have no idea how terribly I’ve suffered watching you with all that wretched sewing. Put another in me.” 

And Shaftoe did, moving his hand and his hips together as though he was fucking Jack, Jack’s cock trapped between them, blurting wet over their stomachs. He realized he could feel the same slickness on his cock from the Remnant and pressed his forehead against Shaftoe’s chest, sucking in a breath as Shaftoe’s mouth brushed over his temple.

“Want to see your face,” Shaftoe said. “I want to see you as I fuck you.” Shaftoe’s pale complexion was flushed and his hair was an unkempt mess on the pillow, no trace of the masquerade left, snaggle-teeth bared in a fierce grin. “E’en if I can’t do it properly.”

Jack groaned, unable to keep his eyes open, and the Remnant pushed hard against the base of his cock, and he clutched at Shaftoe, fisted his own cock with the other, once, twice, and he was done. Shaftoe easing out of him, kissing him with a slight smirk on his face.

Jack dragged his fingers through the mess on their bellies, sliding down Shaftoe’s body and used his teeth over the scars on the Remnant. Shaftoe, sitting up on his elbows so he could see what Jack was doing, swore blackly and came, his release hot and sticky on Sparrow’s cheek, pearling on his eyelashes.

“God, the way you look,” Shaftoe said, and when Jack lay down atop him, he ran his tongue over the side of Jack’s face, cleaning him, forgetting to make faces at the taste.

“I’d say that was proper enough,” Jack said, fighting to keep the imbecilic grin off his face, lest it alarm Shaftoe. “For a given definition of proper, of course.”

******

That Wretched Dress and the accompanying corset were playing a very crucial role in keeping Jack Shaftoe awake the next morning. In retrospect, vigorous physical activity before and after more vigorous physical activity might not have been his best idea, and Jack had awoken with almost no energy, and aches in an embarrassing number of muscles. He had hoped to spend the day laying around while said aches and pains mended themselves, but the Plan wouldn't hear of it, and Sparrow had given him a smug and filthy look when he had tried to protest that he was too tired to work. Now he was on his way to sew with the ladies of the court, to maintain his position as a recipient of gossip among them, and while he had insisted he didn't need Moseh there, Moseh had insisted on coming and in the end had simply brought himself along, no matter what Jack said, which eliminated the possibility of sneaking off for a nap. A great deal of coffee, Jack thought, was going to be in order.

Jack and Moseh were well on their way to the salon where the sewing, and hopefully, the profitable gossip was to be taking place when they were stopped by a man on crutches. His whole right upper leg was bandaged, far more than Jeronimo's was. Interestingly enough, Moseh looked completely panicked at the sight of him, and tried to shove Sahftoe off down another corridor, but the man moved surprisingly quickly for being on one leg and a pair of sticks.

"Señor de la Cruz!" he called out. "A moment."

Moseh turned around, wincing.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," the man said to Jack. "First, let me assure you that I bear no ill will," he said to Moseh. "The duel was fought fairly and fairly won, and I am satisfied. I just wished to commend you on your remarkable technique and to press you for a moment of your time that you might demonstrate to me - and perhaps a few of my more advanced students - as I have never seen its like, and am most eager to learn it. Unless," he added, when Moseh seemed too stunned to reply, "you learned that method as part of the teachings of some order whose secrets you may not betray. I have heard of such things, of course."

Moseh gaped, not unlike a landed fish, so Jack surreptitiously elbowed him. Interrogation as to what the man was referring to could commence only when he was gone. "I'm afraid my lady will be late if I tarry," Moseh said. "Perhaps later?"

"Of course, do not let me keep you," the man said, bowing as best he could. "I wished only to pay my respects to a master," he added, and limped off.

"Well," Moseh said, as though nothing whatsoever had just happened, "let's get you to that sewing circle."

"Now hang on," Jack said. Let no one think that they could fob him off that easily he thought, not when there was so plainly something amiss. "You fought a duel? Why? What happened? Obviously, you won. And if so, why is he so pleased about it?" It seemed to Jack that he was not being told everything about what had happened while he was gone. And considering the ample opportunity that Sparrow had had to fill him in, so to speak, Jack couldn't help feeling annoyed. "I don't suppose he insulted my honour too," Jack said. "And had he done so, shouldn't Jeronimo have fought him? Unless he insulted Anamaria, in which case your dueling him would only rouse suspicion and rumour. And besides, I'm fairly certain she can fight her own duels so-"

"Peace, Jack," Moseh said. "It was for the Countess de la Zeur."

"Oh." Jack considered this for a moment. The name rang no bells, but that was no guarantee it did not denote someone he ought to have known all about. He had paid precious little attention during the less interesting lectures on Things He Ought to Know for the Plan. "Who?"

Moseh fidgeted with the crucifix he was wearing. "A friend of yours, that is of Señora Macufino. She, ah, asked you to tea, through me, and I may have been clumsy in your refusal, and she was somewhat offended, by that, and the fact that you seem to be ignoring her. She's been hanging about."

"Well why didn't you just say so when I got back," Jack asking, continuing down the hallways. "And what'd you do to that man to get him so excited?"

"Threw a hatchet into his leg," Moesh said. "I'm as confused as you are as to why he seems to have enjoyed the experience so much."

They joined the women at their sewing where Jack promptly asked if anyone had heard the rumours about l'Emmedeur being in Spain. He was gratified to hear that they had, and settled in to listen to already exaggerated tales of his marketplace exploits. The conversation soon gave way to tales of his past exploits, which were even more exaggerated; in some cases completely made up, and therefore even more entertaining. Jack plied his needle as patiently as he could, and stabbed himself in the finger twice, and the thigh once. Fortunately, the cloth he was working with was black, and he didn't think the blood would show. When the conversation was not in French, he and Moseh traded queries and evasions on the subject of just what had happened while Jack had been away. Jack was beginning to think that there had been something cataclysmic, possibly involving that Inquisition everyone was always so nervous about, but Moseh denied this fervently, pointing to the entire company's free, untortured, unburned state as evidence, which Jack had to admit seemed fairly valid.

"But what is this about your husband and your translator both fighting duels on account of the countess de la Zeur," some Duchess Jack couldn't recall the name of said in halting French. "Surely you and your friend have not quarreled."

"What did she say?" Moseh demanded. Jack had been delighted to learn that Moseh spoke no French. It was always nice to feel he had some slight advantage. It seemed about time that he mistranslate for someone else for a change. 

"Not what you just told me," Jack said. "Also, that you are extremely ugly. She asked me to tell you."

Moseh gave a tight, thin-lipped smile. "What did she say?" he said again.

Jack ignored him, and turned back to the Duchess. "If we have," Jack said in French, "I'm quite unaware of the cause."

The Duchess translated this for the rest of the ladies, all of whom seemed confused, a little uncomfortable at hearing what Jack had just said. "Well," she said cautiously, "I would think she has made it quite plain. She is displeased with you and your husband owning slaves."

Jack turned to Moseh. "Why would you lie about why Jeronimo fought the duel?" he asked. "I believe we need to talk about this. In a language I can understand, if you please." 

"There's nothing to talk about," Moseh protested. "It didn't concern you."

"Nevertheless," Jack said, and rose as gracefully as he could (aching abdominal muscles and corsetry combined even more badly than a slightly tender arse and endless sitting) He excused himself and Moseh from the group and stormed off to find Sparrow, Jeronimo and Anamaria, Moseh trailing after him while making ineffectual protests and arguments as to how Jack need not be privy to all aspects of the Plan so long as he was willing to trust the rest of the group. He found them all in Sparrow's rooms going over the money Sparrow had picked up from the blackmailing scheme.

"This is going better than I might have hoped, "Sparrow said, beaming at Jack when he came bursting in. "Pull up a seat...well, stand, I suppose, but-" 

"Who is the Countess de la Zeur?" Jack asked. "And why were you all lying about having fought duels over her? None of it seems amiss to me, save that you lied about it, which means that it is something else."

There was an uncomfortable silence and then Jeronimo's demon took him.

"Because, you fucking imbecile," Jeronimo's demon said, "the Countess de la Zeur is your precious Eliza, may she fall back into whatever infernal anus shat her out of Hell in the first place, and this company of liars, rogues, and bastards naturally assumed that you would be too insane, immature, and imbecilic to cope with the knowledge of the immediate presence of one whose whorish abilities once caused your pathetic Remnant to perform any action besides shocking the general populace."

"Bloody hell," Sparrow said.

Jeronimo put a hand over his own mouth. "Oh God," he murmured, "I'm so sorry."

"You can't talk to her," Moseh said quickly. "It'll ruin everything. She must not know that you are here."

He had been lied to, Jack thought. He had been trusting this lot, and they had lied to him. 

Jack pushed past Moseh. "You said someone died over this," he said to Sparrow. "Was that true or were you just trying to talk your way into bed with me?" He froze. "That day in the day room - you saw her coming down the corridor, didn't you? Is that what all this was? Distracting me?"

"All this," Sparrow said, "had nothing to do with that. And yes, someone did die, but over Eliza, not over you, not that it matters since he's dead and I was the only fucking priest there, which according to what he believes probably means he's floating in some sort of miserable divine way-station, all because you had to be shielded from coming into contact with fucking Eliza."

It was only somewhat belatedly that he took in the full meaning of what had been said, which was that Eliza - his Eliza - was here, in the palace, where he could easily find her after all these years. He wondered if she was still as beautiful as he remembered her, but of course she must be, for she was Eliza, perfect, unchanging, lovely Eliza. The Imp was almost speechless with joy at the thought, and was letting out little shrieks of glee before it, like Jack, recalled again that he ought to have been told all of this before.

"She mentioned you," Anamaria said, getting to her feet and putting a hand on Sparrow's shoulder. "When she was telling me about her trials as a slave on the run, she mentioned you as one of the indignities she had to endure. Even if you could go to her, she wouldn't be pleased to see you."

"I don't believe you," Jack said. 

"Proving only that you're as Pox-addled as we thought you were," Jeronimo said, though if it were the man himself or his demon speaking, Jack couldn't be sure. "The only people on this Godless earth who care about you are in this room, and she has been nothing but an aggravation to any of us."

"I love her," Jack said. "It doesn't matter if she knows or cares, and if any of you cared about me, you wouldn't have kept her from me."

Sparrow rose. "Mr. Shaftoe," he said. "When the Plan is complete and the crew has their shares you may do what you like. Chase her across Europe again, or not, as it pleases you, but for the time being you will follow the Plan. Do you understand?"

Jack wanted to hit him. The rest of them had lied to him, but Sparrow had done so while seducing him, pretending interest in his person and his company, and that seemed far, far worse. And now the whole dishonest lot of them wanted him to follow along with their wretched Plan as though nothing had happened; as though they were all still friends.

_Wait_ the Imp said, _just wait and lie to them, lie like they did to you, an' with you, and all the while lying. Wait till they're not watching then go to her, go to sweet Eliza and see that they're wrong._

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "Well what has the Plan got for me now?" he asked.

Sparrow sat down, but slowly, and a little suspiciously. "That very much depends," he said, "on if we can trust you to finish this."

Jack snorted and tugged at the corset, trying to get comfortable. "I ain't the one who's been lying," he said. "Look, if we're all going to sit about, or if I'm going to sit about, can I at least do it in trowsers? This get-up isn't getting any more comfortable."

Sparrow sighed. "All right, he said. "I'll take you."

They were stepping into Jack's room when Sparrow said, "Whatever you want to believe, I wasn't trying to distract you—except that once and then after barely a moment distraction was not my main concern—and I wasn't lying about the man who died. I fancy you, Jack Shaftoe, and I intimated so aboard the Pearl long before we knew Eliza was here. I wanted to tell you."

"You didn't though," Jack said, turning around so Sparrow could help him out of the dress.

"I should've," Sparrow said. "And I'm sorry."

Urged on by the Imp, Jack made a dismissive noise and started pulling off his jewelry, underthings and hairpiece. "You were bored on the ship," Jack said stubbornly. "And you were trying to distract me here."

"That was not my motivation, no," Sparrow said. "And I'm sorry you have such a low opinion of my character."

Naked, Jack turned around to face Sparrow. "You wanted to fuck an ex-syphilitic vagabond with a third of a cock?"

_You've got him there, JackmyJack_ the Imp whispered as Sparrow took a step closer. _He'll do just what you want him to now, Jack, my clever Jack._

"Not as a rule, no," Sparrow said, tugging at his beard as though there were still braids in it. "But I did want to fuck you."

"Did?"

"Do."

Jack glanced over Sparrow's shoulder at the closed door. "Won't they wonder where we are?" he asked, but Sparrow was already coming closer.

"I don't care," Sparrow said, and kissed him. Jack set upon the buttons of Sparrow's cassock, pushing it back over Sparrow's shoulders, and Sparrow's hands were gentle on his hip and the back of his neck. "I am sorry, Jack," Sparrow said against his mouth. His eyes were closed, and Jack's were open. He could almost count the individual lashes of Sparrow's eyes, as he shoved at Sparrow, tugging at his breeches and Sparrow held onto him until they were naked together on the carpet, the weave rough against Jack's knees. Sparrow's eyes were open again, black like the Imp's. Jack was straddling Sparrow, hands resting on his shoulders so he wouldn't tip over, half-pinning him down. Sparrow was hard under him and the set of his mouth was tentatively pleased. 

"Still think I was using it as a distraction?" Sparrow said, rubbing his thumbs over the cut of Jack's hipbones. He was strangely beautiful, in a savage, dirty, dangerous sort of way. Jack should have known better.

"No," Jack said. "But I am."

Sparrow's eyes widened a second before Jack's fist caught him in the jaw. Jack grabbed Sparrow's head in his hands and slammed it against the floor. Sparrow fumbled for Jack's arms and Jack slammed his head down again. Sparrow went limp under him, and he got to his feet, not stopping to check for a pulse; he didn't think he'd cracked his skull, not with all that hair of his, but Jack didn't care either way if he had. Sparrow made a little moaning sound while Jack was getting dressed in his own clothing, so he gave him another knock on the head as he dragged Sparrow's unconscious body into a chair. Jack tore strips of fabric from That Wretched Dress and used it to bind Sparrow's wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs. He thought about gagging him, but decided that if Sparrow wanted to shout for help in his current state, that was his own affair.

_Lies and lies_ the Imp said as Jack climbed out the window. _Lie and kiss to get what you want. Reciprocation, Jack._


	12. In Which the Unexpected Occurs

Now that Jack Shaftoe knew what, or rather, who, he was looking for, it was no trouble at all to scramble over the roof, clamber along windowsills, along guttering and make a few daring leaps until he was prying open the window of Eliza's room. The others couldn't possibly understand, that was the problem. Moseh and Anamaria, Jamie and Jeronimo, even Jack Sparrow—the lying son of a bitch—they were low, wicked people, with low, wicked feelings for one another. That was what Jack had had with Sparrow, and that was what had clouded his judgment and kept him from seeing Eliza when she was right here in the palace. The others, trapped inside their grimy lives, could never understand his love for Eliza, which was as pure and perfect as she was. It hadn't started out that way, of course. He had been half-mad from the Pox, on the back foot with her schemes, discombobulated by her manipulations of his person...but he loved her and once she had offered to...

Jack paused, knife jammed in the window lock. She had offered something, he knew it. Just before he had set off on the ship that ended up being attacked by the galley.

_Said she'd fear for your immortal soul_ the Imp reminded him, jumping up and down on his arm, as though that would make him open the window any faster. _Said she'd offer you happiness and wealth_

There was something else, he was fair certain of it. Jack's memory of being on the quay was very dim. He'd been struck by a harpoon mere moments later and the French Pox had erased most of the rest of the exchange. She'd said a great much to him that day, before hurling the harpoon in his general direction. There'd been some business about Eternal Wretchedness. Though whose, he wasn't sure. Probably his. The point was that feelings had made no difference whatsoever. And likely they wouldn't again. But that was of no consequence; simply loving her was enough; it had to be, or all that talk of Feelings and their possible import would mean nothing.

The Imp was silent on the matter; now attempting to pry open the window itself. That was either a very good sign or a very bad one. Jack tired of his own logicking and did as the Imp bade him, cracking the window and stowing the knife. Eliza was in her room, her profile to him. She was as beautiful as Jack remembered. Of course, last time he had seen her his view had been slightly obscured by a harpoon and by the onset of Pox-blindness but now he could see her properly and restore her image to his mind. Her youthful face had changed, perhaps; matured, but it was only the experiences of life giving her a deeper expression of knowledge and wisdom; there were no lines, no scars, nothing to mar her pale, smooth skin, and her hair was as golden as the day he had met her. She was, as always, perfect.

"Hullo, Eliza," Jack said, landing softly on the carpet of her room. "No hard feelings about the harpoon. I think I can safely say I've learned a valuable lesson about the evils of slavery." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and looked around. "How've you been these past four years? You seem to have done well for yourself."

"What are you doing here?" Eliza asked. She seemed to be less surprised to see him than he might have expected, but that was just like her; a step ahead of everyone else, and far more clever than those around her. "Until yesterday the rumours were that you had died."

"Near death experience," Jack said, shrugging slightly. "Cured me of the Pox." He had forgotten how small and delicate she could seem. He wanted to protect her, and found himself wishing she were in some danger so that he might do so. "Just wanted to see you; found out you were here and thought I'd look in." As he said it, he realized he wasn't sure why he had wanted to see her, other than to see her. To follow her around Europe again, he supposed. For a moment that didn't sound right, but no, Jack insisted to himself, if only she would let him, he would do it.

"How long have you been at court?" she asked.

"A while," Jack hedged.

"Oh, God," Eliza said. "I didn't believe it possible. It seemed too far-fetched, but it's true. They described the new Lady Macufino to me, a homely blonde, and that's not what she looks like at all. But it's you. You've been pretending to be her." Eliza's graceful hand flew up to her mouth. "Oh my God, you killed her."

Jack took a step forwards. "I didn't kill her," he said. And this was exactly the trouble with someone who was always a step ahead. It was sometimes very difficult to explain anything to them before they arrived at their own conclusions.

Eliza pulled a gun from her reticule and pointed it at him. She was prepared for danger, which was good, and didn't hesitate to show it. That was his Eliza. "But you've been pretending to be her," she said accusingly.

"I might have."

"Help!" Eliza shouted. "Guards! Help!"

He had forgotten how loud, how shrill she could get and he and the Imp agreed that there was no talking to her in such a mood, so Jack lept back out the window and scrambled to the rooftop, the sound of a gunshot ringing behind him. He would have to find the others, Jack thought, before the guards did, and try and find a way to explain the situation that did not make everything sound like his fault.

******

Jack Sparrow awoke with a pounding headache and a stuffiness in his nose that suggested it had been bleeding as Moseh came into the room, quickly shutting the door behind him with a look of horror on his face that confirmed Jack's suspicion that he had just been the recipient of a vicious beating. It took Jack a moment to fully comprehend his situation—in pain, bound to a chair, and naked—and another to remember how he had got into such a state. Shaftoe.

He tried to say, "Hurry up and untie me, he could be anywhere by now," but it came out more as a slurred, indecipherable mumble.

Moseh seemed to get the message anyway and started working on the knots. "It appears Shaftoe got the drop on you," he said. "However did he manage that?"

His hands free, Jack tried to bend over to work on his own ankles but all the blood rushed to his head until he thought he might black out again, or throw up. He sat back in the chair and let Moseh do it. He decided to make himself useful by covering his privates so Moseh didn't have to have his face right next to them while he worked. "Hilarious, Mr. de la Cruz," Jack said. "How long have I been out and have you any inkling where the soon-to-be-late-Mr. Shaftoe is?" He would report that Señora Macufino had taken ill again, and when he produced the body would simply have to hope no one took too close a look.

Once Jack was released from bondage, Moseh stood up. "You were gone for three quarters of an hour and we, unsurprisingly, haven't seen Shaftoe." 

Jack got unsteadily to his feet, leaning on Moseh's shoulder for support. "I think I know where—" he began, before the door opened to reveal two palace guards, armed, but not leveling the weapons at them.

"This," Jack said blearily, "I can assure you, is not what it looks like, whatever that might be." Moseh, Jack reflected, for a man who committed at least one illegal act with every breath he took, had a lot to learn about locking the doors of rooms he would prefer not be entered.

Four guards and Jeronimo followed the first two into the room. "We have orders to search these rooms," the leader of the guards said. "What the hell is going on?" Jeronimo, without resorting to sign language, managed to convey exactly the same question. 

"Father Gorrión spent many years as a heathen," Moseh said, shoving Jack's cassock and crucifix into his arms. "And he still, from time to time, feels the need to go as Adam and Eve did before the Fall." Jack nodded approvingly; it seemed quite a good lie to him. Moseh paused, and shrugged helplessly. "And also he tripped."

Jack pulled the crucifix on so it hung down and covered the gris-gris he had on, then shrugged into the cassock, hoping that the guards hadn't got too close a look at the various battle scars he had accumulated over the years, or at his pirate brand. The tattoos, he decided, were too obvious for them to have missed, but while some were strictly nautickal in theme, others were more geometric so, maybe, they might pass as remnants of life as a Heathen.

"What is you wanted my sons?" Jack asked. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Moseh give Jeronimo a hand signal that he did recognize: Deny everything.

"As we've explained to Señor Macufino, some allegations have been made and we have orders to search these rooms." The guard gave Moseh a suspicious look. "Please step away from the priest."

The haze was beginning to clear from Jack's mind and he considered, as the guards began to search, what anyone would be likely to find. Against all odds, their paperwork was in order but he couldn't remember if they mightn't have cocked up in some other way. 

"What is this torn dress doing on the floor?"

Jack, though he usually prided himself on being a quick thinker, could come up with nothing that would satisfy the Royal Spanish Guard.

Jeronimo started signing and Moseh started translating. "My lord says it belongs to his wife who has been missing. She has not been seen since this morning. Her slave girl is also missing. She has recently been afraid of the Countessa de la Zeur who has been harassing her and he is concerned that between the threats, the duels, and her recent fever that left her weakened, his wife may have fled in fear for her life."

Jack began to understand now what had happened. "Fucking Jack Shaftoe," he muttered in Manhatto. "I'm going to murder him."

"Anything to confirm the countessa's story?" the head of the guards asked.

"Nothing but a straight-razor, sir, but that's not really enough." Jack allowed himself a small sense of relief. It was beginning to look possible that there was nothing to—

"Sir." One of the guards came in from the hallway. "We found these." These, unfortunately, were Jack's collection of weapons, a sword, two pistols, powder, several knives, which he hadn't thought of when inventorying their possible incriminating material. "And fewer books than a Jesuit ought to have, Sir."

Jack had to concede how that would look bad.

"We also found this," another guard said, holding up something that Jack couldn't see.

"In the priest's room?" the captain asked.

"No, sir, in the translator's." The man moved aside, and Jack could now see that what the guard was holding appeared to be a worn, threadbare prayer shawl. 

Jack gave Moseh what he hoped was a subtle but exceptionally incredulous look. Moseh looked torn between trying to make some excuse for the article's existence and bolting from the room.

"All right," the captain of the guard said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to search both of you."

Jack, who had only just managed to finish buttoning the cassock spread his arms. "Haven't got any pockets," he said hopefully, praying that Shaftoe had been enough of a bastard to steal the knife sewn into the lining of the cassock, and that Moseh had no further items of Jewish religious vesture concealed on his person.

******

From where Jack Shaftoe was crouched on the rooftop he could seen nothing but he could hear Sparrow, Moseh and some unknowns, which meant he was too late. He had found Anamaria first, and she had climbed out onto the roof with him. She was strong and fast aboard the Pearl but she was unused to watching for loose tiles and rickety spikes and, moreover, she was in a dress which slowed their progress to the point that she had sent him on ahead. Jack had just enough spare presence of mind to think that it served her right to have to accomplish an already tricky physical task in a dress, after all the hours he had had to spend learning to curtsy properly. 

Arriving ahead of her wasn't going to do them the least bit of good, Jack realized, since he couldn't see and didn't speak enough Spanish to figure out what was going on. Anamaria finally clambered up onto the ledge next to him, breathing heavily.

"What's 'brujeria?'" Jack whispered, wondering if he shimmied down a decorative carving he might be able to see the occupants of the room, but not have them see him.

Anamaria shoved him out of the way, craning forwards so she could hear better.

"What's it mean?" Jack asked again, his voice threatening to get loud enough for the people inside the room to hear.

"Witchcraft," Anamaria said. "It means 'witchcraft,' now shut the hell up so I can hear."

******

Jeroninmo had been the only one to throw his gris-gris away when Anamaria's back was turned, and both Jack Sparrow and Moseh were still wearing theirs, a fact that the guard's search quickly revealed. Again, Jack was forced to concede that it didn't look like they were the best of Catholics. Jack did take a bit of pleasure in the expressions of fear and something like awe that accompanied the discovery, though that was shortlived, as it was followed by the realization that the situation had just gotten worse. Considering that it was mere minutes since he had been naked, unconscious, and tied to a chair, that was almost impressive. After the briefest of apologetic gestures to Jack and Moseh, Jeronimo made motions to be brought pen and paper and wrote something down which he handed to the captain of the guards.

"I had no part in this heresy," the guard read out slowly. "And now I wonder if these men did not have a part in my wife's disappearance."

Jeronimo signed briefly to Moseh who translated his, "I will do what I can," in Manhatto to Jack before Moseh was told to be silent.

Another guard came into the room carrying most of Anamaria's things. "Look at this, Sir," he said, dropping his burden on the table. There was a bundle of herbs, feather, a small carved fetish, and a number of bones that made Jack think that Anamaria had caught that bat after all. He would have been more pleased for her had the circumstances been anything other than what they were.

Hoping to give her enough time to get away (and possibly send for help) Jack said, "Those are mine." Unfortunately, he did so at precisely the same time as Moseh.

The guard looked at the mass of evidence. "Does any of this support the Countessas' theories?" he asked, sounding annoyed and confused.

"No," one of the others said. "Perhaps the weapons but..."

The captain nodded, relief flashing across his face before he schooled his expression. "Indeed. It looks, to me, like this isn't our jurisdiction. Heresy, witchcraft, crypto-judaism, and impersonation of a churchman. This is a case for the Inquisition. Remove these men and escort them to the offices of the Inquisitors."

"That could have gone better," Jack said to Moseh in Manhatto, before he too was told to be quiet

******

"Seems to me," Jack Shaftoe said to Anamaria, "that this is mostly your fault. Of course, Moseh shouldn't have brought his Jew-rug into fucking Spain, but mostly, I think it's down to you."

Anamaria finished knotting up her skirts, hands clenched in the fabric. "Of course," she said. "Because I told the biggest bitch in Europe that I was masquerading as her dead friend because of an infatuation I developed while I was going mad from the Pox. No, a moment, that was you."

"The search would have been a mere annoyance," Jack said, bristling, "had their rooms not been full of the paraphernalia of witchcraft, which I believe was you. Jeronimo was the only one with a grain of sense. Looks like he did as I did and threw out your spell-bags the second your back was turned." He stood up and looked out over the city. "I'll go to Eliza," he said. "She can help us." All the screaming had clearly been a misunderstanding, and once he got back to her and explained that her friend had died of natural causes (although, now he came to think of it, Jack had only his former friends' unreliable word on the matter. Best not to tell her that detail, he decided) and that he himself had been entirely blameless in the whole affair, and that Anamaria was not a slave, but a colossal annoyance, she would understand, and forgive him.

"Jack," Anamaria said, "we need to get off this roof and back to the _Pearl_. I need you to get me there without our being detected. We have to warn the rest of the crew."

"She can help," Jack insisted. She had been here longer even than they had, and no doubt held the whole of the Spanish court in the palm of her lovely hand.

"God damn you," Anamaria snapped, "she turned you in!"

"She'll understand," Jack said.

Anamaria got unsteadily to her feet. "I need to get to the _Pearl_ ," she said, her tone greatly altered. "I can't do it alone, Jack. You can go back to her after, but I need you now."

Once they had reached the _Pearl_ , and much to Jack's consternation had set sail and left the harbour, Anamaria's tone changed somewhat. 

"I cannot think of a single compelling reason not to kill you," she said. Anamaria was back in men's clothing and Jack was tied up in the great-cabin facing Gibbs, Gabriel Goto, Jamie Martingale, and the prospect of a keel-hauling.

"If half of Sparrow's stories are to believed he's escaped from worse before," Jack said.

"He had friends helping him," Anamaria spat. "And it wasn't the fucking Inquisition."

"I wasn't expecting that," Jack said. "To be fair."

"However good a liar Captain Sparrow may be," Gabriel said, "he is an illiterate and clearly not a Jesuit—not that the Inquisition is overly fond of Jesuits to begin with. The fact is, they're both guilty and there is more than enough evidence, viz. voodoo, the tallit, Jack's inability to read, Moseh's presumed lack of a foreskin, and Jack's pirate brand, that their execution is not only likely, it is certain. Torture is certain only if they attempt to plead innocent, which I assume they will. Eventual confession is also more or less certain and that will be swiftly followed by the aforementioned execution."

Jack wiggled his fingers, trying to get some blood to flow to them. It didn't help. "I want to prevent that as much as you do," he said, since it seemed to Jack that the only way to stay alive was to prove his usefulness. It probably wasn't true, especially where Anamaria was concerned, but he might as well put up a show of being on their side.

"Really?" Anamaria said, hands crossed over her chest. "Because I doubt very much that Jack sent you off to Eliza with his blessing. So you must have done something to him to get away."

"Let me help," Jack said. Now that he was no longer seeking it, Jack could hear Bob's voice perfectly. It was informing him that he had made a huge mistake and was likely going to die paying for it. And, on top of that, he had sent two men off to be killed, and it struck him as a little sad that people who were genuine criminals were going to be tortured and executed for something as inconsequential as a religious transgression.

Anamaria snorted derisively. "By running to Eliza again?"

"I can make explosives," Jack said. It was the first thing that came to his mind, and he could think of few situations that wouldn't be improved by the application of said chemickals. "If you want to break them out of prison, I can help."

"We have gunpowder," Gibbs pointed out. "And I say we don't waste any time if we want Jack back in one piece."

"I"m with Gibbs," Anamaria said. "We don't need Shaftoe. Let's just kill him and have done with it. Any against this?"

Jamie shook his no, but said, "If he can help, if there's anything he can do, he should. I want Jack back, and I want Jeronimo safe, and if we go in without any strategy they're not going to make it."

"They didn't arrest Jeronimo," Jack pointed out. "He could just run for it."

Jamie glared at him. "He wouldn't abandon his friends," he said. "He has honour, something I doubt you could understand since you turned the two men who kept you alive for four years and the one person who, against all odds, actually wanted to put his hands on you for purposes other than violence, over to the Inquisition."

"Firstly," Jack said, "Jeronimo is prisoner of his own idiocy then, which has nothing to do with me. Secondly, failing to let nature and the French Pox take its course for four years inspires no more loyalty than a vigorous ass-fucking does, but nevertheless give me a week and I'll make you a diversion the likes of which you've never seen."

Anamaria looked at Gabriel. "Can they last a week?" she asked.

Gabriel shrugged helplessly. "Depends on how many other prisoners they have," he said, "and how eager they are to get to them. And how long they can both hold out under torture, of course," he added, then ducked his head apologetically. Jack didn't see what he was so sorry about; he was meant to be a Catholic, after all, and he wasn't the one actually sending them to the torture chamber, just bringing it up in conversation.

"One week," Jack pressed. "Then I'll distract the city watch, the palace guards and every other person in Mentirosos, while you use that gunpowder and whatever else you want to break in and rescue the others."

Anamaria looked around, but everyone else in the room was looking at her. She unrolled a map and pointed at a place on the coast. "We'll make port here," she said and then stabbed her finger at another place. "This where we'll rendezvous after. Untie Shaftoe and get him what he needs. If he tries to run, kill him. Gibbs, you'll have command of the _Pearl_ while I'm ashore." She watched Shaftoe as he rubbed at his wrists, the moment they were free. "If my captain or my lover die because of your stupidity," she said, "then rest assured that there will be no place on this blue earth that will hide you from me."

"Based on the condition of your captain and your lover," Jack said, getting up, "I'd be more concerned if you were trying to protect me."

He was mostly unsurprised by the punch to the face he got for that one.

******

Prior to the discovery of the gris-gris, Jack Sparrow had been planning to offer Moseh a lecture on the subject of illegal religious items, and the inadvisability of bringing such objects into a nation controlled by an organization that would, it seemed, set a man on fire as soon as look at him anyway, but under the circumstances it looked a bit hypocritical, so instead he had said that it was only a wonder they hadn't been caught sooner, a sentiment Moseh seemed to agree with more out of a sort of pessimistic fatalism than a lack of faith in the Cabal's ability to carry out the Plan, and the conversation had turned to what other difficulties they might be about to face. Now settled against the cold stone wall of the cell, Jack rubbed a thumb over the nerveless skin of his pirate brand. "What we're going to do about your suspicious John Thomas I don't know," Jack said. He turned his manacles over thoughtfully. "But I know what to do about my brand." 

Moseh, sitting on the (mostly lice-ridden) straw pallet in one corner of their delightful cell, raised an eyebrow. "Tell them it stands for 'priest?'" he asked. 

Jack considered if that would work and decided it was a little too far-fetched. "No," he said. "We're going to burn it off."

"One," Moseh said, "we have no fireplace. Two, any fire you can make—and I assume you mean this straw and not your crucifix—"

"It would not look well," Jack agreed, "to destroy Christ's image while awaiting trial for heresy."

"The fire would potentially burn your whole arm. If you want to use it again I suggest not sticking it in a fire."

"True," Jack said, and told himself the itching of the old burn scar on his other arm was all in his head. "We'll need to heat something else up. Metal for example." He jangled his manacles and twisted them experimentally, trying to touch various parts of them to his brand. "I suppose I'll manage," he said, though he couldn't quite work out how he make them reach his brand, which was a little too low on his forearm for him to access easily, and he was already starting to strain his wrists trying.

"You'll burn your hands," Moseh said, "and you won't be able to aim properly. This is not a job you want to fuck up. You're as like to die of rot while awaiting trial if you burn yourself too badly by mistake."

"If you can think of any other ideas then I would love to hear them," Jack said. He was growing frustrated with continual criticism, and was also beginning to feel that pessimism, though perhaps called for by their situation, was not going to improve anything. "I feel that this point we have strayed so far from the Plan that some degree of improvisation might be allowed."

"T'was improvisation that put us here in the first place," Moseh countered. "And I was merely going to suggest using the joining chain of my manacles as the metal to be heated. It will allow for greater precision."

Jack gave Moseh a half-smile. "That is going to make your irons very uncomfortable," he said.

Moseh shrugged. "I wore manacles for four or five years, Jack, and I've yet to ascertain a comfortable way of doing so."

Jack bowed, hands pressed together, then said in an overly loud voice, towards the door of the cell, "My, that's mighty Christian of you," and at Moseh's puzzled expression, said, more quietly; "Well it can't hurt to try."

******

Jack Shaftoe was sketching on a bit of paper, ripped from a logbook. He might not have been literate but he could draw out the design for the pots and tubes and boilers he would need in order to make Cold Fire, a substance that would, he believed, help. Not help anything in particular, just make any situation generally more chaotic and bearable. He drew as best he could from his memory of what Enoch Root had done. In all honesty, he wasn't sure it would work, or that Cold Fire would be effective at accomplishing anything other than chaos. He was just trying to get out of it in one piece without Anamaria gutting him, and if she couldn't see that the best course of action was to go to Eliza, or run, that wasn't really his problem. Whether the Cold Fire worked, or whether it didn't, Sparrow and Moseh were dead men and Jeronimo would be soon if he didn't cut and run as soon as he could. 

It didn't make him happy to know that Jack and Moseh were going to die, but he'd already wished them Godspeed and a quick death. If by some chance they did escape, he would be the first to congratulate them on their fantastic, almost as good as his, skill at survival in the face of ridiculous odds, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk his life for them in an almost totally suicidal Plan. Once the drawing was as complete as he could make it, Jack went to find someone to give it to. He was under orders, not to mention the influence of his own sound judgment, to stay the hell out of Anamaria's way, but he saw Martingale by the leeward rail and figured he would do.

Jamie was morosely poring over some pages and even Jack could guess that they were the last letter Jeronimo had sent him. He thrust the drawings into Jamie's hands. Though the boy hadn't asked, Jack decided to give him some advice. Jack had years of experience on his side, and he supposed his advice was as good as, or better, than what he might get from the fanciful notions Jamie had gleaned from his love poetry.

"In life," Jack said, thinking that was as good a way as starting as any, "it is almost certain that you will lose what you love. Don't care about anything and you'll have nothing to lose."

Martingale looked up at him, aghast. Then, after a moment his expression changed to that of a man regarding a leprous begger: annoyance and disgust, but mostly pity. "Having nothing to lose," he said, "is not something to aspire to. If it was, then you would be the happiest man in the world, and since you are friendless and the only lovers you have had in the last decade are a woman who is indifferent to loathing of you, and a man you betrayed, I think it is fair to say that you are not."

"I'm not unhappy," Jack said. "And none of you lot seem to be leaping about with joy."

Jamie got to his feet, though he still had to look up to glare at Jack. "We were," he said, "until you fucked everything up. Apparently it's not enough for you to be miserable on your own, you have to bring everyone else down to your level."

"My level?" Jack said scornfully. "I am a Vagabond, you a pirate, which granted is more nautickal but that is more a matter of location, not of levels."

"I do not mean our social or moral level," Jamie said, with a surprising amount of patience. He spoke like a man on the brink of an extremely embarrassing emotional outburst, and Jack sincerely hoped that he would have managed to extricate himself from the conversation by the time said explosion occurred. "We, as far as I am concerned, are all hell-bound scum. I myself was once an officer in the navy. Do you know how few officers desert? That was a rhetorical question. I am not saying that any one of us are good people, and yet, somehow, you have contrived to be worse still. We may be worthless as far as the rest of the world is concerned, but we are good to each other. I have known Jeronimo for only about a month but he is far better to me than most that I have known." Jamie's girlishly pretty face became blotchy and creased as he visibly tried to keep his grief and anger in check. "He writes me poetry for fuck's sake."

"That's all very well," Jack said, "but what has that to do with me?"

Jamie carefully folded up his letter before answering. "Had you, yesterday, been caught by the Inquisition then we would have all tried our hardest to get you out. Especially the men you just condemned. Your position is nothing to do with the way of the world; it is your own fault. You had much to lose, but instead of protecting it, you threw it away." He walked off towards the great-cabin, presumably to give Anamaria the sketches, leaving Jack feeling, for the only time he could recall since before he'd been pox'd, like the one sane man in the midst of lunaticks.


	13. In Which Guilt is Apparent

The paving stones in the floor of Jack Sparrow and Moseh's cell were uneven and crooked which, while annoying to sit on, were perfect for their current endeavour. Moseh selected a stone that was vaguely concave and had enough of an edge that he could grip on with the tips of his fingers. They had considered having Jack put his arm directly into a small fire, but it was decided that building up a flame big enough to burn him significantly would cause too much smoke, light, and suspicion, and returned to their original plan; the gradual heating of Moseh's irons for use as a brand. Moseh knelt on the floor with the cuffs as high up his wrists as he could get them and the joining chains of the manacles in the depression of the stone. Moseh waited while Jack built up a small mound of straw and scrap fabric over the centre of the chain. 

"The problem," Jack said, striking his own manacles against the stone to try and create sparks, "is that, if we aren't convicted, we have nowhere to go and if we are, no way of getting out of here." The next shower of sparks caught the dry straw which started to smoulder. Jack blew gently on in, coaxing it into actual flame, and gathered a handful of straw with which to feed it. "Yet, I mean. We need a new Plan." 

Moseh was staring studiously at a patch on the wall much like the rest, holding his head out of the smoke and Not Looking at his arms. "Our conviction aside," Moseh said as Jack fed more straw into the fire. "If we do get out of here, how unlikely is it that the _Pearl_ will be anywhere in the vicinity?"

"Ah," Jack said. The thought had been worrying him for sometime; but he had not liked to bring it up. "About that. I imagine you've heard Anamaria say on more than one occasion that I owe her a ship." There was a reason Jack preferred not to incur debts in the first place, and this was it; one never knew when the one to whom something was owed was going to demand, or take, their payment, but it was generally at the most inconvenient moment possible.

Moseh dug his fingers into the stone hard enough that Jack's nails and knuckles ached in sympathy. "That's—ow—not good. How much would you say you owe her a ship?"

"Couldn't say for certain," Jack said, though he was certain the answer was 'a lot.' "How much would you say she likes you? Loyalty is one thing, but hanging around to get arrested oneself is another thing entirely, not to mention a violation of the Code."

The men sat in silence, save the minute crackling of the fire, and Moseh's pained cursing. "Best not count on that then," Moseh said at last. Jack could now detect the strong odour of singed hair, which meant they had to be getting close.

"Do you suppose Jeronimo's still here?" Jack asked, peering through the smoke to see if Moseh's chains were glowing yet. They weren't.

"He's an odd one," Moseh said, an assertion that Jack had had more than enough occasion to agree with. "Running for it wouldn't be honourable so he might've stayed. Besides, he wouldn't get far on his own."

"He might help us," Jack said. "Though it will be difficult if we are, in fact, convicted, which seems rather probable considering the evidence against us, and the (intending no slight to either of our fortitude) likelihood of our confessions under torture."

"Actually," Moseh said through gritted teeth. "I've been—Almighty God!—thinking about that. You ought to try telling them that the gris-gris is a relic of your pagan past, not witchcraft, just something sentimental. Apologize, recant, what have you."

"What about the weapons?" He had been a fool to have so many weapons along in the first place. They hadn't done him any good, after all.

"Perhaps you were holding them for a friend?" Moseh suggested. It sounded weak to Jack, but he could think of nothing better, so he decided to let it go.

"And what about my inability to read?" Jack said. "I'm meant to be a Jesuit. And stop moving, you're fucking up my fire."

"Perhaps that same friend—aren't we done yet?—was holding your literacy." 

Jack added more straw to the fire. "No, in answer to your question. And what about despite having no heathen past you might be sentimentally attached to, the gris-gris you were wearing, and Anamaria's supplies, which we both so uncharacteristically nobly claimed responsibility for?"

"Perhaps they were a token of friendship from you," Moseh said between bouts of coughing from the smoke and cursing. "I don't know, perhaps I picked up bad habits in the New World." 

"What about the prayer shawl?" Jack let his sleeves dangle over his palms and pressed down on Moseh's hands to keep them in place as the manacles began to glow dully.

"A blanket on which I had been practicing knotwork I learned while at sea. An overly elaborate dishrag. I—I'll have you know this fucking hurts—have no idea."

Jack waited a little longer then let go of Moseh again, pushed his own manacles out of the way of his brand and bit down on the fabric of his cassock. Moseh lifted his red hot chains out of the fire and then draped them over Jack's brand. They sat nursing their wounds and cursing to themselves as the fire died out, the reek of burned flesh lingering in the smoke. Jack cradled his arm close to his body, trying Moseh's technique of Not Looking but it still hurt as much as when he looked at the fat-yellow and red stripe where his skin used to be.

"The New Plan, then," Jack said, "is to be tortured, confess, and then die?"

Moseh slid his now-cool manacles away from the burned flesh of his forearms to his wrists. "It appears so," he said. 

"Not our best Plan," Jack said, "though it does have the benefit of, unlike your previous ones, being quite easy to carry out. Be tortured, confess, die. Quite simple, really; I wonder I didn't think of it before."

"Although, I would point out," Moseh added after a few moments' silence, "that the phrase 'be further tortured' might be the one you mean. Perhaps we can ask to be treated leniently on the grounds that we have begun the Inquisition's work for them."

"Worth a try," Jack said.

xxx

The _Black Pearl_ had quickly sailed to one of the least reputable-looking ports that even Jack Shaftoe had ever entered, and was currently at anchor a little ways from the docks, near enough to row in to purchase or otherwise obtain the things on Jack's not inconsiderable list of requirements for the manufacture of Cold Fire, but hopefully not close enough to excite the interest of the locals, who, though as a general rule seemed to make an art of not showing interest in things that did not concern them, could undoubtedly be a source of inconvenience should they decide to investigate what the mysterious new-comers to their harbor were doing there. Jack had claimed a large portion of the main deck as the location for his Alchemickal Endeavors, and though Anamaria had argued that this placed him very much in the way, he had pointed out that both the fore and the quarterdeck would place his industries in easy view of any passersby, and that working belowdecks was a recipe for a full-ship combustion, which had forced her to reluctantly agree. Jack was growing very familiar with Anamaria's reluctance. It was the same sense of being pushed to do something against her dearest wishes and better judgment that had accompanied her agreeing to allow Jack to live. As it currently stood, she had informed him that his next fuck-up would result in his not entirely immediate, and notably painful death, and Jack wasn't sure, but he thought what she might have meant was "please fuck up, because I would very much like to murder you, and as yet I have agreed not to, and therefore need a further excuse." The Imp agreed with his interpretation.

Jack had declared that he needed someone to help him in his work, and Anamaria was clearly not a candidate. She had tried to pass the job down the chain of command to Mister Gibbs, who had made dire proclamations about the potential consequences of meddlin' with sorcery, and refused, whereupon the task had passed to the one person on the _Pearl_ with any sense of loyalty to Jack; Gabriel, fellow ex-galley slave, and Cabal member of old. He was being less than helpful.

"It's actually almost unheard of for a person arrested by the Inquisition to be acquitted," Gabriel said as he helped Jack arrange the Alchemickal jars beside the rail and lash them down so that the slight movement of the ship at anchor would not cause them to fall. "Theoretically possible, of course, but not something I believe we should count on."

"We're not counting on it," Jack pointed out. "That's why we're making explosives, or weren't you listening?"

"What we must also consider," Gabriel continued, his words backed with the full authority of a complete Jesuit education, "is that if they are not acquitted, torture is quite likely, and of the three techniques used by the Inquisition only one of them is likely to leave Captain Sparrow and Moseh in any condition to make an escape. The toca or as I believe it is sometimes called the interrogatorio mejorado del agua is our best bet, but that also offers the worrying chance of—"

Jack was attempting to ignore Gabriel, and he spoke enough Spanish to be fairly sure the man was making things up (interrogation made better by water did not sound remotely like a real thing), but the Imp was gently needling his ear with its minute claws, and demanding to know what the other methods of torture might be. Jack did not respond, humming to himself to block out what Gabriel was saying about just how water, forced ceaselessly down the nose and throat, could improve interrogation, until the Imp whispered its intention to speculate wildly, and aloud, until Jack offered it the facts to keep it quiet. Knowing that the Imp's imagination (based, as it was, on Jack's own) was virtually limitless, and likely to come up with ideas far worse than anything a lot of old monks could think of, Jack decided to acquiesce. "Why need the other two worry us?" he asked, when Gabriel paused for breath (an action that was not likely to be an option for those undergoing an interrogatorio merjorado del agua, to hear Gabriel tell it.).

Gabriel seemed surprised at Jack's interest, but gratified, as though he interpreted it as evidence of Jack's contrition. Jack decided he could not disabuse him of that notion without missing out on his explanation, so he said nothing. "Because both the strappado and the potro, or rack, may render them unable to walk," Gabriel explained. "We must make practical considerations for that possibility."

That was enough information for Jack, but Gabriel was still talking, now about the effects of the rack upon the body, so Jack was forced to engage himself in loudly pouring chemicals into vats (probably a bad idea, as some of them were volatile and ought to have been poured gently, but it was a handy enough way of shutting Gabriel out), while the Imp clawed at his ear and claimed that whatever happened to Sparrow and Moseh was Jack's fault. _But now you're helping, Jack, good Jack, penitent Jack, helping to save them and earn your pardon, aren't you, Jack?_ the Imp said, its tongue flicking over the places where it had just dug its claws into Jack's ear. _My Jack knows a guilty conscience when he feels one, and he knows that Cold Fire, not prayers, washes off the guilt best, doesn't he? You'll save them, and be forgiven, ain't that your thought, Jack?_

"Not at all," Jack whispered. 

_And yet here you are, Jack,_ the Imp said in satisfied tones, while Gabriel speculated darkly as to the probability that Sparrow or Moseh might break under the three forms of torture. _Trying like anything to make it all better, and why do that if you didn't know you'd done wrong?_

"When have you ever known me," Jack said, "to miss an opportunity to create chaos and explosions? That, and if I try to leave now, Anamaria will hunt me down. It's nothing to do with anything else."

Gabriel, who alone among the ship's current company was used to Jack's habit of speaking to the Imp, said nothing, but the Imp laughed aloud. _Tell yourself whate'er you like, my Jack,_ it said. _Don't change the fact that it's not enough, can't be enough, can it be, Jack, if all that Gabriel's saying should happen, if Jack, your Jack should have all that happen to him, his beautiful body broken, his strong limbs bent all everywhichway. it won't matter how much work you do, you'll never be forgiven, and if you try and fail, and see him like that then you'll never forget till the day you die that it was your fault, and you know it, don't you Jack?_

Jack decided that it was clear that no one around him was worth listening to today; not the Imp, not Gabriel, and certainly not Anamaria, who he noted was watching him from the quarterdeck. He returned to his work, concentrating on the mixing of the chemickals, and the thought of what a lovely disaster would be created when they were put to use.

xxx

Once Moseh's hands were no longer in the fire he was able to come up with a far better Plan: Blame everything on Eliza. Jack Sparrow found himself liking the idea even before he had heard the details.

"Except, perhaps," he said to Jack, "this fire. I don't know what we're going to say about that. But the rest of it I feel we can blame on her entirely. As anyone who has heard the court gossip will know, Eliza has a grudge against us, so all we need do is claim that she planted the incriminating objects; weapons, prayer shawl, Anamaria's things, all of it."

It certainly sounded at least mildly plausible, Jack thought, and was better than Moseh's 'you have a friend' idea, which he hadn't been feeling terribly confident about. Still, any Plan concocted by Moseh was guaranteed to have hidden flaws somewhere within its twisted layers, and Jack was determined to find them before they made themselves known. "What about the fact that we had gris-gris around our necks? Did she plant those too?" Jack asked.

"This," Moseh said, sounding not a little pleased with himself, "is where the Plan gets truly clever. We say that she herself is a witch."

Jack brightened. "That is rather good," he said, trying not to sound too surprised. After all, when accused of witchcraft, spreading the guilt around seemed to be the traditional response.

"She has such very close ties with Satan that she has even managed, through sorcery, to take away your ability to read scripture." Moseh said. "It has been a source of much pain for you, but through prayer you are trying to fight her spells." 

This new Plan, Jack felt, was entirely brilliant. The fact that there was concrete evidence against them was one thing, but when charges of witchcraft were being bandied about, concrete evidence was not required. "Moseh," Jack said. "If we get out of this, and if we get back to the _Pearl_ , you may be assured that you have my blessing in regards to Anamaria." 

Moseh looked gratified, and was about to respond, when the sound of footsteps outside the cell brought all conversation to an abrupt halt.

"Why do I smell burnt flesh?" The guard stationed in their section of the Inquisition dungeon said from the other side of the barred door. 

Jack cocked his head to the side. "More importantly, why do you know that smell off-hand?" It didn't suggest anything he did not already know about the sort of thing that happened in Inquisition dungeons, but it was worrying nonetheless.

"Witchcraft," Moseh said confidently.

The guard perked up. "You confessing?" he said.

"Not at all," Jack said hastily. "What he means is that we suspect a woman who, from afar, has made our manacles burn us through what can only be the work of a witch."

The guard shook his head. "Save it for the Inquisition," he said. "I've no say in the matter." Fair enough, as far as Jack was concerned, the man must certainly get tired of people begging him for help all the time, though there was always the choice of changing professions.

"You do seem a knowledgeable sort of chap though," Jack said. "One could reasonably assume that you've been doing this job for some time?"

"Four years," the guard said. He leaned casually, against the cell door, and Jack considered, and rejected, the idea of trying to grab him through the bars. There would be no point, really; guards never had rings of keys hanging on their belts when you needed them to. "What do you want to know?"

"What do you suppose our chances of being acquitted are?" Jack asked. "Honestly." It would only be one man's opinion, but it would give them a fairly good idea of what they were up against before they went in to trial.

"Honestly?" The guard shook his head. "You sound guilty to me. Both of you, if you want to know." 

"Hey?" Jack said.

"Well, innocent men don't usually comment on the experience of their jailers and calmly ask them what their chances are," the guard said, and Jack had to admit that the man had a point. "Usually there's a great deal more 'there's been a terrible mistake,' and less fire in their cells. Also you called 'Jesús,' 'Moseh,' as I was walking up, which doesn't help your case much at all."

"Oh," Jack said. "Right." He nodded, suppressing the nagging thought that perhaps he had run out of luck and lives. He glanced over at Moseh, who shrugged in what Jack interpreted as a "fair enough, on all counts," sort of gesture.

"Cheer up though," the guard continued. "You might not be executed, even if you are found guilty."

"Really?" Jack asked, brightening a little.

"Might get sent to the galleys," the guard said. "Row out the rest of your lives on some ship."

Moseh started to laugh, though there was no real mirth in the sound. "Of course," he said. "Ah broch! Of all the...the Fates have spoken; I am a complete fucking shlimazel, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it."

"Don't talk like that," Jack said quickly, referring less to the pessimism than to the language. It was hardly the time or the place for Yiddish.

"Vos is der chil'lek?" Moseh demanded, and Jack was forced to admit that he had a point.

"You are extremely odd," the guard said, and left them alone.

Moseh put his head in his hands, unable to stop his hysterical laughter. The word "galley," as well as the words "unfuckingbelievable" could occasionally be discerned. 

Jack slumped down against the wall. "Fucking Jack Shaftoe," he said. "Bastard's going to have put you back on a galley, and me along with you, after I took him and you both off one." Jack did not think he was an overly vindictive man, or an overly pious one, but one had to swear oaths to something. 

I swear to God, Jack thought, if I get out of here I will find Jack Shaftoe and kill him. And if I am put on a galley, I will escape, and find him, and kill him. And if I am killed in a Auto de Fe then I will haunt him and not even Tia Dalma herself will be able to banish my spirit.

He voiced as much to Moseh, who gave a vague grunt of agreement as his laughter finally died down. "The universe," he said, "has a terrible sense of humour. But I would hope that it would also allow us our revenge."

Even if he did escape death or enslavement, Jack thought to himself, he wasn't certain he would be able to do as he had sworn. He hoped that, had Anamaria fled, she had at least done right by him and cut Shaftoe's throat before she made for safer waters. She was a good first mate. He trusted her to have acted in his stead.

xxx

Things were looking quite good on the Cold Fire front. Jack had left the various ingredients to percolate, combine, digest, gestate, or whatever else it was that they needed to do (he was aware of what needed to be done, but the actual Alchemickal words for the processes at work escaped him completely) while also ignoring the insisting voice of the Imp in his ear. The Imp, unlike Jack, had listened carefully to every detail of Gabriel's extended monologue on the inner workings of the Inquisition, and was seldom without some horrid speculation to offer. Whenever Jack pointed out that it was welcome to stop trying to guilt him, as he helping, wasn't he? the Imp would act so self-satisfied that Jack could hardly bear it, which made it not worth the minute of quiet that such an assertion earned him.

Jeronimo himself arrived early the next morning, having ridden hard all night, to deliver the message that it did indeed seem that Sparrow and Moseh were to be brought to trial, that the charges seemed to be, as far as Jack could make out, Witchcraft and Sorcery for both of them, with charges of Seditious Protestantism (since a foreigner disguised as a priest was almost certainly in Spain to spread heresy of some kind) against Sparrow, and charges of Persistently Being Jewish against Moseh thrown in for good measure, then got back on his horse and rode off for Mentirosos again without sparing more than a few minutes to converse with Jamie. 

His news didn't seem to surprise Gabriel, whom Jack viewed as the resident expert on the subject, but it threw Anamaria into what Jack considered an unwarranted tizzy. "A trial cannot possibly go in their favor," she argued. "And that means they either confess, and are burned, or they continue to claim their innocence, and get tortured until they do confess. And it's all of it your fault," she said, rounding on Jack, and even going so far as to draw a pistol from her belt. He had been getting enough of that lately from the Imp, and was all set to tell her exactly where she could stick her misplaced frustration, not to mention her pistol, when Jamie spoke up instead.

"Exactly what more do you want from him?" Jamie demanded. "He is doing what he promised, and his actions here cannot effect the actions of the court in Mentirosos. They are two clever and resourceful men, and whether or not they can last until we are able to rescue them is as much up to them as it is to us, but I do not see how abusing or threatening Mister Shaftoe is going to help."

"It's his goddamn fault," Anamaria said. "If it was us in prison because of him, Jack would've killed him the minute he found out."

"Maybe," Jamie said, though he sounded doubtful. "But I would still have argued otherwise. Anamaria, he's new to this company, and this life, he's sane only on occasion, and then only marginally, and one day he will, no doubt, wake up to realize how thoroughly he fucked up in sending two people who cared so deeply about him to the Inquisition, but that is his problem, not yours." Jack did not particularly care for being spoken of as though he wasn't there, but he decided it was best not to offer comment at this moment. "The more you act like you are now, the longer it will take him to realize that," Jamie added. "And if he's going to help us, we had best accept his help, not continuously question his past actions."

Anamaria glared at Jack, then at Jamie, but eventually stuck her pistol back in her belt. "I want that Cold Fire done in three days," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, your past actions are forgotten when Moseh and Jack are safe, not before."

Jack nodded without saying anything, and walked out of the great cabin towards his alchemickal preparations, surprised more than gratified by Jamie's support. He was prepared to forget about the whole thing, and continue working, but Jamie, he noticed after a moment of swirling one of the retorts, had followed him. "Don't take what I said as anything more than what it was," Jamie said. "If you do fuck this up, I'll help Anamaria kill you myself."

"I expected nothing else, Mister Martingale," Jack said, and returned to his work, surprised that the Imp felt no need to weigh in on what had just transpired, but finding that he felt awful enough about the whole situation without its contributions.

xxx

Jack Sparrow was writhing on the floor trying to look as though he were wrestling an unseen foe.

"What is it, exactly," Moseh said, "are you meant to be fighting? Is it an alligator? You're doing something strange with your hands."

"It was a jaguar," Jack said, from where he lay sprawled on his back and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. "Which is what I thought we agreed upon as the form Eliza's demonic contact took. The hand gestures to which you refer was my attempts to keep its jaws from my throat." He sat up. "Perhaps it needs work. You know, I have no idea what they're even going to charge us with." As it turned out, according to their guard, the Inquisition preferred not to charge their prisoners but rather to torture them and see what they confessed to. "I mean, will I be tried as a heretic or a heathen? And, for that matter, how will charging you with practicing Voodoo fit with their charges against you as a crypto-Jew?" Moseh shrugged helplessly. "Would that make you a VooJew?"

"Hey Father heathen, you and Jesús the chosen one have a visitor," their guard said.

Their visitor was Jeronimo, jaw bandaged, looking exhausted and worried. _As far as anyone here is concerned,_ he signed as Moseh translated into Manhatto for Jack, _I am questioning you as to the whereabouts of my wife. Are you alright?_

"We have no idea where your wife is," Moseh said. "We suspect a witch. We hope you find her soon and punish her."

_The_ Black Pearl _is gone, but not far. They will return shortly to help with the escape,_ Jeronimo signed. _What the hell are you two planning?_

"I swear on the holy wounds of Christ," Jack said, warming to the Charade, "that we have had no part in the disappearance of your wife. It's the Countess de la Zeur, she's a witch."

_Do you really expect that to work?_

"Not really," Moseh said.

_I've demanded a public inquiry into the disappearance of Señora Macufino, _Jeronimo said, grabbing briefly onto the bars as though he would wrest them away from the door to get to Mosh and Jack. When he let go again to sign, a small cloth-wrapped bundle about half the size of an orange slid down the door to thunk quietly on the floor. _I will be in attendance, and I will be very well armed. I suggest we try to make our escape then as they will not torture you before the inquiry, I've made sure of it.___

__"For the last time," Jack said, going for a note of innocence, though from Moseh's eye rolling he wasn't managing it, "we don't know where she is. By the Blessed Virgin and the—"_ _

___Don't oversell it,_ Jeronimo said. _Have you ever even heard a priest talk before? Never mind. Just be ready. I will signal you when the time is right.__ _

__"May the Lord forgive you for your ill-founded suspicions, my son," Jack said and then, to Moseh when they were alone again, "Well that sounds promising. What's in the bag?"_ _

__The answer was lockpicks which Moseh held up for Jack to see._ _

__"I love that man," Jack said. "Were it not for my respect for Jamie Martingale I might be persuaded to marry him."_ _

__Moseh sighed and slid the lockpicks into a pocket. "You might wish to practice sounding innocent again," he said._ _

__"If Jeronimo is as good at getting weapons into a courtroom as he is at getting lockpicks into a prison, I won't need to," Jack said. He felt his spirits lifting. Soon as they were out he could find Jack Shaftoe and kill him. He wouldn't even have to resort to a haunting. It wasn't so much of a head start now. It was unlikely to take him ten years to get his revenge this time._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Moseh is cursing in Yiddish he says: 
> 
> _"Ah broch! (Goddamnit) Of all the...the Fates have spoken; I am a complete fucking shlimazel (chronically unlucky person), and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it."_
> 
> And Jack says, 
> 
> _"Don't talk like that," Jack said quickly, referring less to the pessimism than to the language. It was hardly the time or the place for Yiddish._
> 
> Mostly because, despite Stephenson's propensity for having Moseh speak it, Yiddish is an anachronism for 17th C Spain or Portugal, or for that matter, Manhattan. 
> 
> _"Vos is der chil'lek? (what difference does that make)" Moseh demanded, and Jack was forced to admit that he had a point._


	14. In Witch

Jack Sparrow and Moseh were making last minute preparations for their hearing, and were debating if it was possible or even remotely credible to claim that Eliza had made tattoos appear all over Jack’s body and made Moseh’s foreskin disappear. Jack was of the opinion that, so long as they were making wild accusations, they might as well go all out but Moseh insisted that it would be better for the Plan if they remained clothed.

“Should either of us find ourselves naked during the course of this hearing,” Moseh said, “I feel that there will be larger issues at hand than some irregularities of our corpuses, viz. running for our lives with our genitals flapping in the breeze.”

Jack was about to argue the point when the jailer rapped on the door. "Oi, Pope Pagan the first and Cardinal Kosher, time to go."

“It seems to me,” Jack said, getting to his feet, “that you have altogether too much time on your hands.” He surreptitiously pushed the cuffs of his priest’s robes over the manacles on his wrists. Despite appearances, they had been unlocked for hours, and he was worried that they would fall off. After a pointed look from Moseh, who had been coaching Jack in the finer points of the pretension of innocence, Jack continued. “However, I forgive you, my son, for your cruel mockery of an innocent man of the cloth. Pray convey us to the hall of justice, wherein our guiltlessness may be proclaimed.” 

“We’re going to die,” Moseh whispered in Manhatto. “You do know that.”

******

As shady brothels in shady port towns went, Jack Shaftoe thought he had managed to find the shadiest of them all. Going to a Den of Iniquity in the middle of the day was never subtle, and Jack did his best to look nonchalant. Having already drawn the attention of the Inquisition in one town, it seemed prudent to avoid doing the same in a second. The House of Ill Repute was masquerading as a Boarding House of Possibly Worse Repute Still. It had a worrying lack of solidity to its structure, and the whole thing was leaning alarmingly in the direction the wind was blowing, but it would suit Jack's purposes.

The Imp had become so annoying that, in what might not prove to be one of Jack's better ideas, he had decided drastic action was in order. The Imp had been insistent that Jack would eternally regret Sparrow's eventual demise, and ceaseless in its reminiscing about all that was good, and unique about Sparrow. And so Jack was taking it upon himself to prove it wrong, as Jack Sparrow himself had said, neither he nor Eliza were uniquely talented.

"Can I help you?" the crabbed old geezer behind the front desk said. Jack fervently hoped that the prostitutes were a little more comely than their pimp. 

Jack realized that he had not the faintest idea of how to do this. "I'm...looking for someone," he said.

The pimp rooted around in one ear with a finger. "Top or bottom?" he asked.

A puzzling sort of question, Jack thought, and a mildly alarming one as he had no idea what the man was talking about. "What is the more popular choice?" he said, hoping more information would lend clarity to the matter at hand.

The pimp removed his finger from his ear and looked patiently at Jack. "Do you want to fuck someone," he said. "Or get fucked?"

Oh. A trifle more direct than Jack was expecting, but now that he had his facts straight all he had to do was answer the question. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and examined the decor, which seemed to be in the style of ramshackle hut. "I don't want to fuck anyone," he said at last.

The rest of the transaction was as embarrassing its beginning and Jack was sent to a room on the second floor. The pimp had been kind enough to tell Jack where in the room he would find the necessary pot of lard which Jack was doing his utmost not to think about because then he found himself wishing for Chrism. He did his best to put that thought of his mind, as the whole point of the exercise was to demonstrate how much he did not need Jack Sparrow.

The room was not much to behold: A mattress, a table, with an obvious sort of pot, and a prostitute. The young man, sprawled on the bed in a state of dishabille—trousers riding low on his hips, shirt open practically to his navel, waistcoat unbuttoned and hanging loose off his shoulders—was comely enough, if you liked that sort of thing. He was shorter than Jack, and leaner, but in a slightly hungry sort of way, not from years of slavery and sailing. He was clean-shaven and had the same prettiness to his face that Martingale had, which was really not a thought Jack wanted to have.

"Er," Jack said. "Hello."

It was ridiculous, Jack decided, to be acting like a virgin on her wedding night. He'd hired prostitutes before and he'd been buggered before, combining the two was not so much of a stretch as to warrant blushing and stammering like an idiot. Best to be straightforward and get the matter of the Remnant and his unique situation sorted so a) the lad wouldn't be surprised and b) so he would know what he had to work with. Jack dropped trou and gestured at himself. To his credit the prostitute did nothing more than raise an eyebrow. Of course, Jack was beginning to suspect, from the sleepy cast of his eyelids, that the young man was under the slight influence of opiates and therefore would be extremely difficult to startle.

"I see," the prostitute said. He patted the bed next to him, shrugging off his waistcoat, which dragged his shirt down so it was hanging off one bony shoulder. Jack wondered if that was a practiced movement but did as he was bid.

He was leaning in when the young man put a finger on his chest, stopping him, and turned his face away. "I don't do that," he said and Jack felt his cheeks pinken as he realized he'd been about to try and kiss him. Fucking Jack Sparrow.

Since it had been some time since he had done anything with anyone, it took Jack a while to remember that he preferred to find his company without the aid of a pimp or madam. He'd known a great many prostitutes before Dunkirk, but more frequently he had not engaged their services, relying instead on his dubiously good looks and charm. Not out of any sense of prudishness, but the whole experience tended to be more fun when both parties were interested in the proceedings beyond customer satisfaction.

Not to say that the experience was unsatisfactory. Jack spent, which was what he'd wanted. He'd proven to the Imp that he could get what Sparrow could provide from just about anyone who knew what they were doing, and God knew that there were plenty of men Jack had run into in his travels who would be more than happy to bugger him. He was putting his clothes back on, fixing his queue, and trying to quickly calculate how much of the coin in his pocket the prostitute had filched, when the Imp reappeared.

_Not the same,_ it said mournfully, _O' not the same at all._

"You're a pain," Jack muttered quietly to it. "I hope you know that." Dressed, he made his way out of the brothel, the Imp clinging to his trowser-leg for a moment before climbing up him, to settle in its customary position atop his shoulder.

_Weren't it though, Jack? Weren't it so much more with Sparrow, your marvelous Jack? And with lovely Eliza, weren't it better with her too?_

Jack stopped walking barely a few feet from the brothel, which might not have been the best place to stand, but in this part of town a man talking to himself was unlikely to draw much comment. "Now see here," he said. "First you push me at Sparrow, then you push me at Eliza, then you're back to harping on about Sparrow, and now Eliza again. Ain't the fact that I'm, after all this wasted time, able to fuck again, ain't that enough for one day?"

"I ought to be surprised," said a familiar voice, interrupting the Imp's reply. "But since every time I believe I have seen you sink as low as you can possibly get you always find some new way to astound me, so I can safely say, I am not surprised, merely impressed with your determination to fuck everything up as thoroughly as possible, including your own life. Of course, as one of your nicknames is L'Emmedeur, I see I am not the first to come to this conclusion."

Jack turned around to see Jamie Martingale standing behind him in the street. "It never does well to listen to uncharitable things about others, and bandy them about," Jack said. "Why, if we all did that, I'd have to call you Jamie the slut or Jamie the harlot at all times, and that's far too much of a mouthful for casual conversation."

Instead of angering Jamie, as Jack had expected, Jamie simply shook his head. "You don't think it's even a little sad to be visiting brothels, soliciting other men, barely days after you—" He stopped, and sighed heavily. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps your mind is too rotted to understand. I am just sorry that Jack Sparrow ever paid the slightest bit of attention to you. He is far too generous of spirit to waste his affection on a man who is unable to comprehend what human feeling is like." Jamie turned away and started walking. "You're needed back at the ship."

******

To Jack's dismay, it was Eliza who was given the first opportunity to speak at the trial. It was not a promising beginning.

“That man is no priest,” Eliza declared, pointing, as though her words needed explanation, at Jack. “I saw, with my own eyes, a pirate brand upon his arm, while he was too busy debauching himself to notice.”

In the months of hearing about her exploits from the then-mad Jack Shaftoe, Jack had come to loathe Eliza with a cordial disdain he usually reserved for admirals and heads of state. He had felt vindicated to find that, when encountered in person, she lived up entirely to his worst expectations. Now, on the receiving end of her full wrath and self-righteousness, he was beginning to think she far exceeded them. 

“That I can easily disprove,” Jack said, in reply to her accusation. He held out his arm, the burn wound over where his pirate brand had been still raw. “You may see for your self there is no truth to the accusation. What is true,” Jack continued, still brandishing his arm, “is that this wound appeared, like some demonic stigmata, upon my arm several nights ago, just as these wounds —show the court your wrists, Jesús—appeared upon the arms of my cell mate and devotedly pious parishioner. It is plain that some sorcerer, some agent of the devil, tried to enchant our skins to bear the brands of criminals.” The speech was rehearsed, but Jack was already beginning to improvise. “And it is equally plain that they failed, due, no doubt, to my own and Señor de la Cruz’s faith. Plainest of all should be the identity of the witch. She is none other than our accuser, the Countessa de la Zeur. Or should I say the Countessa of Hell?”

“Well put,” Moseh whispered. 

The court erupted into loud speculation and Jack had to fight the rather childish urge to either smirk at the gobsmacked Eliza (who was doing a rather ugly impression of a fish out of water) or stick his tongue out at her. It was worth remembering that, embroiled in Intrigue though she might be, Eliza was as much a foreigner as they were, and likely under just as much suspicion.

She gathered herself enough to rise to her feet and shout out, “Lies!” She was told by the judge to sit down but Eliza shook off the hand of an aide and remained standing. “Those are clearly an attempt only to escape from their chains and place the blame on innocent heads.” The mutterings about the court seemed to be fairly divided in terms of opinion, but Jack would take uncertainty over a definite view that he was guilty any day.

Jack thought about shouting, “Witch!” again, but decided against it.

“Ask them,” Eliza demanded, “what they have done with my friend, Señora Macufino. I know nothing of their wounds, or their heresies, I seek only to learn what they and Jack Shaftoe have done to my friend.” 

“The lady has fled the persecution of this sorceress,” Jack said. “Shortly before she enchanted incriminating objects to appear in my and my fellow God-fearing Catholic’s rooms, she tormented Señora Macufino with nightmares, ghostly visitations, and illness, such that the poor woman was unable to leave her bed. It was only through my ardent prayers that she summoned the strength to flee at all. And the ardent prayers of Jesús de la Cruz, who, like me, is a devout and pious Christian. Saint-like, in fact.” The judges were conferring amongst themselves, and Jack trailed off when he realized he was no longer being listened to. The legal zargon they announced when they had finished conferring was completely beyond Jack’s comprehension, and he turned to Moseh. “I’m only an ignorant savage,” he whispered in Manhatto. “What did they just say?”

“That there is not sufficient evidence to judge the credibility of our testimony,” Moseh whispered back. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Jeronimo, who had been sitting quietly, wrapped in a voluminous cloak, sit up a little straighter. 

“That doesn’t sound too awful,” Jack said. "Well done us, I'd say."

“It means that we’re going to be tortured,” Moseh replied. “And that it’s likely time to stop pretending we’re chained, don’t you think?”

“Why don’t they torture her?” Jack demanded crossly. “She’s the witch.” He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was not exactly looking forward to having to fight his way out of this mess. It was all well and good when the navy, or in this case, the Inquisition was trying to kill him, since he felt few qualms about using all means necessary when he stopped them, but there were an awful lot of innocent men, not to mention ladies in the room. Miss Eliza notwithstanding.

Moseh sighed and surreptitiously took his chains off, out of sight of the judges and the guards. “No, Jack, Anamaria is the witch, I am the crypto-Jew, you are the counterfeit Jesuit, and we’re all of us pirates. Eliza is the respectable woman we’ve just slandered.”

“I know that,” Jack muttered, piqued, “but that’s no reason for everyone else to be so untrusting.” He stood up and swung his chains in a vicious arc that ended with the manacles cracking against the head of the nearest guard.

Jeronimo stood, flinging back his cloak and Jack took a second to be impressed at the arsenal that he had managed to smuggle in. Surely they must search people before they come into the court, Jack thought, as Jeronimo cut a quick and bloody swathe through the courtroom towards them, tossing Jack a sword and Moseh a set of what looked an awful lot like the hatchets he had dueled with earlier. Not that he was inclined to object, of course, but surely no one should be able to get into a court of law with three swords, four axes, and an assortment of daggers concealed beneath a cloak, no matter how important they claimed to be. As Jack, Jeromino, and Moseh took up fighting positions, it was immediately clear that their location in the courtroom could have been more advantageous. The exit was to their left, as was about a dozen guards, more, Jack had to admit, with all due modesty, than he thought they could handle. To their right was the audience, and there, Jack decided, another means of exit. He grabbed the nearest terrified Spanish lady and put his sword to her throat. “Drop your weapons,” he said, “And back away slowly.”

The axe embedded in the nearest guard’s skull completed the threat. Those armed let their swords clatter to the ground and Jack smiled at them. “That’s good,” he said. “Much obliged.” He could see someone priming a pistol, though what they intended to attempt with it, he had no idea. 

“Moseh, Jeronimo,” he said. “Perhaps we, this charming young lady and a few of her companions would like to accompany us…over there.” He jerked his chin at another door which he thought led to the judges’ chambers but he hoped led to another exit. A man could always hope.

Moseh, giving Jack Significant Looks, did as he was told, though Jack was unclear what those Significant Looks were supposed to Signify.

Jeronimo, to Jack’s surprise and annoyance, seemed to have snatched Eliza. Although, Jack considered, if hostages needs must be taken, she was surely one whom he would be happy to use as an example of precisely how seriously his threats were to be taken. The rest of their hostages numbered perhaps half a dozen, and were all young, respectable-looking señoritas of the Spanish gentry. Until, that is, utterly contrary to Jack’s new Plans, the fencing master Moseh had dueled with got to his feet (and cane). 

“I beg leave,” he said, “to accompany and protect these women. I’m sure you can see I bear no physical threat. Allow me to stay as a chaperone, as it were. That I may ensure their safety, and that none may claim you violated these ladies’ honor.”

This was decidedly not in the Plan, but Jack nodded. “Anything sharp, heavy, or otherwise bellicose, leave it here. The rest of you,” he said, gesturing at everyone else in the room, “do your best impression of a piece of statuary until we’re gone.” He and Moseh began herding the hostages into the next room, while Jeronimo signed frantically about something that Jack wasn’t inclined to pay any attention to, given his already-existing levels of stress. Whatever it was, he was sure it would wait.

It was only when the door was shut behind them that Jeronimo let go of Eliza long enough to yank the bandage from his jaw. “Fuck!” he shouted, which was nothing remarkable. “Are you completely stupid as well as insane? This hallway leads, you goddamned imbecilic piece of syphilitic shit, to a tower, with no other exits but a sheer drop out the three-inch window.” He looked apologetically at the ladies, and replaced the bandage.

“Not our most advantageous position,” Jack agreed. “It will make it rather more difficult to get out than I had hoped but I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

The little room at the top of the winding staircase was dusty and unused but there was a sturdy door and an assortment of three-legged chairs and dilapidated benches. Jack could not for the life of him fathom why someone would bother dragging broken furniture up three flights of narrow stairs only to leave them to rot, but he wasn’t Inquisition and he had given up on trying to understand them. He perched delicately on a dangerously wobbling chair and surveyed their hostages. Most of them were weeping, the fencing master was limping so heavily that Moseh had to hold him up, and Eliza looked as though she was either going to join the other ladies in their lamentations or try to strangle him. 

He smiled at her. As long as he was having a dreadful time, he supposed she might as well be too.

“Ladies, de la Vega, and Eliza, as I’m sure you’ve surmised,” Jack said to his audience, “I am not a priest. As you may not have surmised, I am the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow, so do not attempt any heroics or I will be forced to visit unpleasantries upon you.” He found that his name failed to register with the prisoners, which was a little disappointing. He was going to have to try harder if he wanted his notoriety to reach the sort of level that Jack Shaftoe (curse the day he was born, and every other one on which he had failed to be killed in a satisfactory manner) seemed to have achieved.

“That’s all very well,” Moseh said in Manhatto, his hands signing the words automatically for Jeronimo’s benefit, “but we’re still stuck in this tower. With her, I might add. What exactly do we do now?”

“You’re the one with the Plan,” Jeronimo pointed out irritably. “Why don’t you think of something?”

“I’ve never taken hostages before,” Moseh said, lowering the fencing master onto a mostly-intact stool. “I yield to your greater experience, Captain Sparrow.”

“It’s perfectly straightforward,” Jack said, although he was fairly certain that there was nothing straightforward about the situation. “We send that young lady,” he indicated the most terrified-looking of the hostages, who could not have been older than fourteen, and whose attempts to keep herself from crying were awakening feelings of sympathy entirely unhelpful for the matter at hand, “to tell the armed men no doubt assembling at the end of the very hallway we’ve just traversed, that any attempt to reach us will result in the immediate deaths of the rest of the hostages. Starting with her,” he added, indicating Eliza. At least some good could come out of the situation, he thought, even if they were attacked.

“And how do we get out of here?” Jeronimo asked, pacing the room, though it was perfectly and frustratingly obvious that there was no other exit apart from the door through which they had entered.

Jack unbuttoned the topmost part of his collar. “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he said. “I’m working on it.”

Jack had been in more than what he considered his fair share of tight spots before. He had always managed to survive, and while those plans usually evolved along the way, or were by-the-seat-of-your-pants affairs, it all usually worked out in the end. Of course, he’d never been surrounded by the Royal Spanish Guard before, with the Inquisition waiting to torture him and his friends, with the man he had rather liked playing the role of Judas running around free as you please. It was a rather sticker situation than he was used to.

“Rome?” Moseh asked. “What, I pray you, has that to do with our predicament?”

“Stop undermining me in front of the hostages,” Jack said, though, since they were speaking Manhatto, it seemed unlikely in the extreme that anyone would know what was being said. "We must present an air of confidence. Try to give the impression that everything hasn't just gone even wronger than it was before."


	15. In which Desperate Measures are Called For

When Jeronimo did not return as expected, it was decided that one of the crew should go and investigate the delay for himself. Anamaria, Jack Shaftoe and Gabriel were all out of the running, as Anamaria and Jack were already involved in the Incident, and so would attract too much attention, while Gabriel was a bit too obviously Foreign, as well as being a Jesuit, which as a result of the discovery of Sparrow’s charade, was a dangerous thing to be just now. To everyone’s surprise, Gibbs volunteered. 

“You don’t speak Spanish,” Jack said.

“I speak Spanish,” Gibbs replied. “You’re new, you were mad, and then you were absent, so why you think you know anything is a mystery. Also, you’re an idiot. I speak Spanish.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?” Jack asked.

Gibbs looked about him as if to ask why Jack was even present for the conversation, but since Jack’s Experiments took up most of the desk space, there was really no way for people to congregate without including him. “Because,” he said. “I spent two years in a Spanish prison when I was in the navy.”

Jack, who was already surprised to find Gibbs on a ship and not, say, in a pub in the excessively English town he was born in, said no more on the matter, but stirred his Concoction in a skeptickal sort of manner. “Maybe,” he said, “but I’ll wager you don’t speak it well.”

“Pour sue-pwaysto, hablo mey-hor kay tea,” Gibbs said, proving Jack’s point. “Don-day esstah la bible-oh-tekah.”

“He doesn’t have to speak it well,” Anamaria said. “He just has to ask a few questions and understand the answer. And I thought I’d made it very clear that you were to have no contributions to this Endeavour that were not explosive.”

“I’m also the only one on this ship who ain’t any kind of heathen, heretic, atheist, pagan, or…Jesuit,” Gibbs pointed out. “Why we sent a representative of each in the first place is beyond my ken entirely.”

And so Gibbs had gone off, to, using what Jack had decided was probably the Worst Spanish Imaginable, discover what had transpired at the trial, and what had become of Sparrow, Moseh, and Jeronimo. Jack was not looking forward to his return.

******

It was not so much the hostages who were the problem. For the most part, they were terrified, except for de la Vega, the fencing master, who was doing an admirable job of maintaining a reasonable level of calm among the frightened women. 

“I understand the lengths you are willing to go to protest your innocence,” de la Vega said earnestly. “And please understand that I have been your greatest defender in court since your arrest, proclaiming your obvious innocence of the charges, but this, it seems to me, is not the way to go about proving that you are guiltless.” 

Jack huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Mate,” he said, “ta for the vote of confidence, but I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” 

“Jack,” Moseh warned. 

But Jack, who had been resolutely playing his own part—that of the captor who would willingly murther every woman in the room to gain his own freedom, and who was, moreover, now tired of the unbelievably useless charade—ignored him. “I’ll admit that we are not witches,” he said. “But what you must understand is that that is about the only thing that we are not.” That kept de la Vega, and the women, quiet for the next moment or so, giving Jack time to brood on his own impending death.

The problem, however, was not those hostages. The problem was Eliza. “You are criminals and rogues!” she exclaimed. 

Jack gave her a nasty smile. “Exactly,” he said. “I’ve been charged with many crimes in my long and storied career,” he continued, advancing on her with a hand placed not un-subtley in the region of the sword he now (most gratefully) wore at his hip, “and witchcraft may be the very first one of which I have, actually, been guiltless, savvy? Pillage, mayhem, heresy, piracy, plundering, smuggling, burglary, rustling, kidnapping, highway robbery, assault, battery, arson, sabotage, fraud, extortion, petty theft, pickpocketting, and, and this is the bit you may really want to listen to if you hope to make it out of this tower alive, good madam, murder. Those crimes I have all committed, in abundance. Except for the highway robbery, which was more of a one-time lark than anything else. But rest assured I am capable of any and all of those crimes if you do not shut it.” 

“Rustling?” Moseh queried.

“I know not whether you may be witches or heretics,” Eliza sniffed, as though she had not heard him, though he was pleased to see that, beneath her careful veneer of calm, she was clearly on the verge of panic, “but you are certainly liars, thieves, murderers, and brigands. I knew it immediately from de la Cruz’s shameful abuse of the slave girl, and your false priest’s complicity in the same.” 

At this, de la Vega, got to his shaky feet. “Now see here,” he said sternly to Eliza. “You told me all this, and more when you urged me on to my duel, and you can see for yourself that the outcome of the duel has proven you a liar. Señor de la Cruz’s innocence was divinely proclaimed the moment he so skillfully buried an axe-head in my thigh.” 

At this, Moseh looked up from his most recent Plan, an attempt to contrive a passageway between the tower room and the one below it. He set down the chair leg he had been working with, and shrugged apologetically. “Pirate,” he admitted. “Also, Jew. Guilty on both counts, I’m afraid.” 

De la Vega hesitated for a moment, then shook his head firmly. “Nevertheless,” he said. “I did not accuse you of being either a pirate or a Jew, but a slave owner and a rapist, and I stand by my argument that your victory in the duel proves that you are neither of those things. My lady of Qwglhm, I must second Father Gorrion’s request that you shut it.” 

Eliza pursed her lips. “I know what I saw,” she said, glaring at Moseh.

Jack thought about telling her all that she didn’t know, and decided it was neither the time, nor the place, nor would it lend credence to the fact that he, Moseh and Jeronimo were a threat to be reckoned with. Not that he ever employed such methods himself, but considering they were in a room of impressionable young ladies (with a chaperon) he didn’t see that it could hurt their Terrible, Awful, Run For Your Life We’re Brigands! personas if the vague threat of rape hung menacingly in the air. It was welcome to hang there all it bloody well liked since nothing would come of it and, if Moseh would only stop building whatever infernal contraption he was working on and come up with an actual Plan then all parties would walk away unscathed and no matter what was said, his reputation would remain unsullied by such nastiness.

One of the younger girls started crying. Jeronimo gave Jack a very pointed look but Jack pretended great interest in Moseh’s…broken chair. It seemed to be remaining a broken chair despite Moseh's best efforts to make it into whatever it was he had in mind. Moseh was also looking reproachfully at Jack, alternating the expression with one of wounded confusion, but Jack pretended not to notice. If it mattered so much, Moseh could defend his own honour, and if he did it with an axe to absolutely any part of Eliza’s corpus, so much the better. Jack hopefully articulated the idea in Manhatto. Moseh rolled his eyes at Jack, grimaced, and went back to his work. 

“Really,” Eliza continued to de la Vega, “I find it hard to believe that the man’s ability to commit acts of violence persuades you that he is incapable of that which I accuse him.” Which was, even Jack had to admit a pretty good point. “Look at him,” she added, as Moseh continued devoting his full attention to whatever uselessness he was building. “He has not even a word to say in his own defense. A lying, abusive coward, who views a defenseless woman as his property and uses the evils of the slave trade in order to achieve his miserable ends.” 

Finally, Moseh stood up, a movement that caused at least half of the hostages to visibly shrink away from him. He tossed the Contraption aside, and rounded on Eliza. “Listen,” he began. “I have heard your tales vicariously, in great detail, from one Jack Shaftoe who would not shut up on the subject for love or money, and from Anamaria, who listened to your endless blathering only for the promise of both, and, madam, having been a slave myself, a galley slave, for six years, two months, eleven days, and innumerable hours, before Captain Jack Sparrow and Anamaria freed me, let me assure you that whatever you have suffered is nothing in comparison to what you might have endured. You did not experience slavery, you experienced captivity, you cannot comprehend, and in conclusion I do not expect you to understand when I say that I would never suffer another to be held in bondage and that the relationship between Anamaria and I is none of your fucking business.”

Eliza let out an indignant huff of breath. “I hope,” she said, “that you do not expect me to believe a word of—”

With a sudden movement that caused several of the women to shriek, Moseh pulled up his shirt, exposing his back to Eliza. From where he was sitting, Jack could see it as well. The cuts that had been fresh when he and Moseh had first met were now healed, and they were only a small portion of web of crisscrossing scars that covered the man’s back. “That,” Moseh said quietly to Eliza, “is what six years of slavery looks like. Cherish your ignorance of it.” He let his shirt fall back, and kicked the Contraption across the room. “We need a Plan,” he announced.

“Glad you think so, mate,” Jack said. He was trying to shake the image of the Moseh’s scarred back, and the entirely unwelcome memories of Jack Shaftoe’s so-similarly marked body that said sight had aroused in his mind. For the first time he could recall, the thought of Jack Shaftoe had briefly come to his mind without rage, rancor, or desire for revenge, but rather with the memory of the feel of his skin under Jack’s hand, the taste of it, the way that scarred back had arched when he—

Shaftoe got you into this, Jack reminded himself. He traded you for the stupid bint currently sitting bug-eyed and temporarily (not to mention mercifully) silenced before you. And when I find him, he swore for at least the hundredth time, I will make sure that he dies regretting it.

******

However long Gibbs had spent in a Spanish prison it was clearly long enough for him to develop a working knowledge of the language, because he returned with news.

“Firstly, they’re alive. They’re holed up in a tower,” he announced. “They’ve got hostages, including that bloke Moseh stuck an axe in, and,” he glanced at Jack Shaftoe. “Some women of the court,” he concluded. “The good news is we know exactly where they are, the bad news is, so do the guards, and the Inquisition, who are ready to start torturing them until they run out of things to have them confess to, whereupon it looks like they’ll burned in the public square.”

“That seems like an awful lot of fuss over a bit of stolen property,” Jack opined. 

“It’s less the theft than the heresy,” Gibbs said. “And aren't you under orders to be quiet?”

“Still, it’s only heresy,” Jack said. “It’s not murder.”

“Heresy is worse than murder in Spain under the Inquisition,” Gabriel snapped. “A point on which I tried to warn you all before we entered into this.”

“The point is,” Gibbs said. “We need to move now. If that Concoction ain’t done by tomorrow, we leave without it, and try our luck with gunpowder, or they won’t be in a condition to need rescuing.”

Anamaria, who had been quiet up until now, turned to Jack. “And if that Concoction isn’t done by the time we arrive in Puerto Mentirosos, we’ll have no further use for you. Finish your work, or I will shoot you myself.”

“Now see here,” Jack said, he waited for someone to pipe up in his defense, as they had done previously, but Martingale was nodding in agreement with Anamaria, Gibbs was eyeing the Concoction as though wondering whether it was even worth keeping Jack alive until Puerto Menitrosos for, and Gabriel only shook his head sadly when Jack caught his eye.

“You have been lunatick for most of our acquaintance,” he said apologetically. “Not so Jeronimo and Moseh, both of whom have been loyal friends in times of great trial, and Jack Sparrow was the man who delivered us from it. I’m sorry, but I cannot take your part in this.”

It occurred to Jack, as he returned to his Concoction, that he had finally fucked up to the point where criminal scum regarded him as lacking in moral fiber. He did not hold friends or allies in particularly high esteem, but it was startling to find himself so utterly without them. Jack looked at the Imp, but it was cleaning its claws with its tongue, pointedly ignoring him.


	16. In Which Desperate Measures Fail

It was early morning on the fourth day since the trial, the time when the hostage-holders would open the door a crack to allow a delivery of food and water. 

“Leave it,” Jack instructed, as he had for the previous few visits. “When I hear that you are absent from the hallway, someone will retrieve it. And may I remind you that the ladies will be the first to sample all that you have so generously provided?”

The man on the other side of the door grunted something in response, and backed away. The routine was working, Jack reflected, in that everyone was staying alive, and could, assuming no change to the current arrangement, go on doing so virtually indefinitely, but the fact was that he, Moseh, Jeronimo, and most likely the hostages as well, were demonstrably no more than another day or two of being shut in the tower away from going stark raving mad with anxiety and boredom. Unfortunately he had not yet been able to determine a way to leave the tower that did not involve the bloody deaths of himself and the other two pirates.

“You might wish to look at this,” Moseh said, holding up a paper that had arrived with the day’s food. After a lengthy pause, he appeared to recall, somewhat abashedly, that Jack could not read, and withdrew the paper. “The gist,” he said, “is that we have until tomorrow at dawn to release the hostages. They say that they are willing to trust that when they storm the tower, the innocent who will regrettably die shall find their eternal reward, while we will burn in Hell. They urge us not to force them to carry out this threat, and assure us that it is not an idle one. Have you thought up any new ideas?”

Several of the women started to cry at that news and Jack, who was as sick of weeping women in general as he was of Eliza in particular, fervently wished Moseh had remembered not to speak in Spanish. He had spent the last four days trying desperately to think of something that did not involve simply shooting himself in the head to avoid capture and torture and while he was usually remarkably adept under pressure, this new deadline did nothing to imbue him with anything other than a rather unhelpful sense of panic.

“Regrettably no,” Jack said. “Perhaps we could counter-threaten?” It was a real shame, he thought, that none of them were actually witches. That would have come in very handy.

"Perfect," Moseh said brightly. "They threaten to slaughter us, together with our hostages. We counter-threaten by offering to...slaughter our hostages? No, hold, I see a flaw there."

"Sarcasm," Jack snapped, "will get us nowhere. Suppose we were to threaten something unrelated to the hostages? They believe we have supernatural abilities, after all."

"If we had such abilities," Moseh said, "wouldn't we have used them already?"

Jeronimo had been silent until now, and Jack turned to him. Perhaps within that bandaged jaw lurked wisdom simply desperate to spring forth and save them all. "Any ideas, mate?"

“Hold,” Moseh said. “Before we allow his demon to aurally violate these ladies, I pray you consider this Plan.”

Moseh had, since their enforced sojourn in the tower, come up with many a Plan. And while never adverse to the odd idea best described as suicidal, idiotic, or utterly without merit, Jack balked at Plans that were all three. “I think perhaps—” Jack began, though he had no real notion of what was to follow his interruption, save that his spirit could not handle another dashed hope.

“It is a simple Plan,” Moseh said, and Jack tried very hard not to start counting chickens. “We take a leaf from, and I hesitate to mention his name, Shaftoe’s book (illiterate though he is) and swap clothing with some of these fine ladies. In this guise we will, in the ensuing confusion as the Inquisition attacks, be able to slip undetected from this tower and hopefully make our way to freedom.”

Jack pondered the many angles of this Plan. Were they able to make any of the women, or even de la Vega resemble them in the slightest, and were they able to feign being the ladies, the women they pretended to be would almost certainly die. Jack hemmed thoughtfully. “It’s not the worst Plan you’ve had,” he allowed.

The fencing master lurched to his feet, like Jack’s own limping conscience sprung to life. “I do not pretend to understand your heathen language,” he said, “but I am sure you must be trying to devise a plan of escape. I beg you to surrender now, while by doing so you may still preserve the lives of your captives. I will swear never to speak of the guilt I have heard you reveal within these walls.”

The pirates ignored him. “To minimize, though admittedly, not eliminate, the danger to the ladies,” Moseh continued, “we might consider finding a way to disguise ourselves among them without forcing any of them to take on our roles. A group of indistinguishable hostages making a run for it, you see.”

“The hostages will, of course, reveal our deception first chance they get,” Jack pointed out. 

“True,” Moseh said. “Which is why I am more than open to suggestions. But time is short, and any Plan, however suicidal, is better than no Plan at all.”

Jack pondered. “I propose,” he said, “maintaining, always, the following set of priorities, viz: the first, our own survival, the second, our own escape, the third, general prevention of unnecessary loss of life, that we adopt your Plan. Jeronimo, what say you?”

Slowly, Jeronimo unbandaged his jaw. “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

*****

Jack looked at the bottles and bottles of volatile, explosive, night-glowing whatever the hell it was that Enoch called it. He’d lost almost half of it to accidents. Nearly killed a few of the crew, but they were recovering nicely from their burns. Jack was pretty sure their hair and eyebrows would grow back sooner or later. The rigging ratlines had caught fire once, too, but other than that no harm had been done.

Jamie stood next to him, squinting against the sun, and the glare off the dirty glass. “Is that it?” he said.

Anamaria came up behind them. She’d started out the expedition with a sort of hard optimism that they could win this fight, that even if the Inquisition had her captain and her lover, all wasn’t lost and all could be saved in the end, Jack could see lines around her mouth and eyes. Either she was still frowning, despite Jack’s triumph, or the constant worry had worn traces of the expression permanently into her skin. The tension of these past few days had aged all of the pirates. Except for Jack.

“Is it done?” Anamaria asked.

Jack shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. He tried not to think of Sparrow, even though everything he was doing on the Pearl was to save a dead man. The Imp had been oddly silent on the matter, waiting, watching the explosions and the chaos and the brewing. Only the vaguest thoughts of Eliza and Sparrow had filtered through. Out in the sunshine with the stink of chemicals and piss in his nose, Jack couldn’t figure what he was going to do once they set sail.

One test of the phosphorus later, and Jack had decided to let all other concerns go hang. This was going to be the most fun he had had since the incident with the burning cart. 

Well, he thought, apart from all the fucking.

“And that’s going to get Captain Sparrow out of the hands of the Inquisition?” Gibbs said, crossing himself for the tenth time since Jack had brought out the phosphorus and, using a small quantity, demonstrated its powers. “He’s been accused of witchcraft, and you think bringing genuine magic into the game is the answer? You’ll have yourself and the rest of us all damned before you’re finished.”

Jack hastily tossed handful of sand over the last of the flames before they could ignite the deck. “I am merely the Distraction, Mister Gibbs,” he said. “It is up to you and your noble collection of pirates to turn that Distraction to your advantage and perform the actual rescue. As for witchcraft, be assured that you may abandon any concerns over the state of my soul. I have it well under control.”

Anamaria was already walking back towards the pile of weapons she had been assembling and checking when Jack announced the Concoction’s readiness. “We’ll leave in an hour,” she said simply. If she felt any hope at seeing Jack’s alchemickal demonstration, she did not show it.

The Imp grinned. _Fire and flame and shrieking and scampering, running and routing, screaming and shouting! Won’t it be fun, Jackmyjack?_

Jack indicated, with a slight nod only so as not to alert the others of his continued conversations with supernatural entities, that it might be at that.

_And Sparrow, Jack, Sparrow, won’t he be pleased to see us?_

Jack made no reply. It was the first time the Imp had brought up Sparrow in some time. Jack had almost thought it had dropped that particular fixation. Perhaps if he didn’t encourage it, it would forget again.

*****

It was not what one might call a good Plan, Jack Sparrow thought. It was, rather, one of those sorts of Plans best classed as stupid, poorly thought out, and smacking of desperation. But it was all the Plan they had, and on the bright side—and Jack did like to try and look at the bright side of things whenever possible, since he considered himself an optimistic sort of fellow —he was fairly certain he looked smashing in his frock.

Moseh…Moseh did not. As fantastic and stand-up a bloke as Moseh was, in women’s clothing he really just looked like Moseh in a dress and the beard was problematic at best. Jeronimo looked little better, to be honest, and the skirts hit unfashionably short on his leg, to facilitate running, which displayed a rather masculine (and hirsute) pair of ankles.

But Jack looked good, and he had the slightest glimmer of hope that they might actually survive which always engendered in him a cheerfulness that he tried to pass along to his captives. “It’s very unlikely that any of you will be shot,” he said comfortingly. “Improbable even, certainly it would be a very bad piece of luck indeed. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

He wondered if it was going to be difficult to get the girls to run on cue. It was going to be hard to make de la Vega run. What with his one leg being rather out of commission. 

It struck Jack that “Fuck it, let’s do it” rather summed up the whole Plan, up to and including finer details.

“I have to admit,” Moseh remarked, looking down at his skirts, which were hanging in sack-like folds from his unfeminine waist, “I do not particularly want to die in this outfit.”

“Well, let’s try not to die then, shall we?” Jack said. He tucked a pistol into his bodice, then covered his chest with the edges of the demure black lace mantilla he was hoping would at least partially conceal his face, and flung the door open. There was no one in the hallway directly outside, and he edged cautiously down the hallway, Moseh and Jeronimo, weapons aimed surreptitiously at the hostages, following behind him. He used a small mirror borrowed from one of the ladies to peer around the corner at the top of the stairs, and, finding no one there, signaled the others to move forward. “So far so good,” he whispered as they began to descend the stairs.

The stairs ended at a long corridor, extending in both directions, and, as far as Jack could make out, empty in both directions. He looked questioningly back at Jeronimo, who tugged thoughtfully at the trailing sleeves of his gown, then pointed left. Jack nodded, and led the party in that direction. The hostages, flanked by Moseh and Jeronimo and under strict orders not to make a sound (Eliza had her mouth gagged and her hands bound in order to facilitate her following of that particular command), followed after him. They got perhaps fifty yards past the staircase before both ends of the corridor were abruptly, and, it must be said, not entirely unexpectedly, filled with soldiers. There was nowhere to run but back to the tower, a course of action that Jack could most charitably describe as somewhat counter-productive. In a perfect world, of course, there would have been some way to simply nip out of the middle of the corridor, leaving the two groups of soldiers to collide comically, and perhaps fatally, with one another, but alas, Jack reflected, this was not a perfect world. 

So back they were to their original hidey-hole.

“This,” Jeronimo said, “is neither honourable nor admirable.” 

Jack shrugged. “I understand your frustration, Jeronimo,” he said. “But this is not the occasion for heroics.” They had argued for hours. Who would or would not wear a dress. If it was worth their lives, if they might live. The fact that it had all come to nothing was frustrating, but somehow unsurprising. 

Jack pressed his fingers against his new burns and winced. “We hole up here,” he said, tired of it already. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Inquisition was going to surround them, take them in, torture the truth out of them. He just kept hoping that somewhere in his past he had met the right man to get them out of this. It had happened before but his luck did tend to be a little finicky.

*****

Jack Shaftoe had been in more disgusting alleyways, but this one was by no means high on the list of places he’d choose to be if he had his druthers. Especially since, with the sun setting, it was hard to see where he was stepping. Normally he wouldn’t be so fussy about it, but he was going to need to make a dramatickal entrance to best all his previous ones, and that would be hard to do if he slipped in filth and fell arse over teakettle.

_You don’t have to do this_ the Imp reminded him. _No one’s watching, no one’s waiting, no one at all._

Jack sighed. “They’ll be watching soon enough,” he said. 

_They’ll remember this_ the Imp agreed _but why risk it, why not run?_

“Because they’ll fucking torture him to death,” Jack snapped. “Not that I care,” he added belatedly. “But what would it look like if Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe turned down the chance to set himself alight and cause mayhem? I ask you.”

The Imp rubbed its reptilian hands together. _That’s my Jack, it said._

Jack had timed his actions perfectly, and twilight was falling as he stepped out into the street, his clothes, including the rather dramatickally sweeping cape he had thought to bring along at the last minute, bright with an unearthly glow. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened window of a shop as he strode past, and he was actually impressed with himself. He looked like a being woven of moonlight.

_If he could see us now!_ the Imp cackled, hugging itself with joy and bouncing up and down on Jack’s luminous shoulder.

Jack, who had half-ashamedly thinking much the same thing, swatted at the Imp, sending glowing drops scattering from his sleeve and fingertips. “Yes,” he said obstinately. “Bob would indeed be quite surprised if he could see me now. As you so keenly observed.” He was now standing at the edge of the town square. He felt the familiar rush of impending chaos, smiled, and stepped out into the half-sleepy plaza, where the last few townsfolk were wandering home. He was going to declare that he was Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds and that he held the power of flame when he thought of something better. 

“I am Satan, Lord of Perdition, and I have come to lay this city to waste!” He approached a shrine devoted to the Virgin Mary, palming a little bottle of the phosphorous that was already mostly dry. So dry that it was starting to warm alarmingly. He put his hand on the head of the wooden statue while the horror-struck residents watched and let the liquid pour out.

“The reign of Hell has begun,” he said as the phosphorus dried and the statue burst into flames beside him.


	17. In Which Sparks Fly

Contrary to the advice that Jack Sparrow had once given a young man of his acquaintance, sometimes the only option was to do something incredibly stupid. And while their previous escape attempt hadn’t been brimming with genius or forethought, it had been in keeping with his general strategy of the alchemy of madness and brilliance (a little heavy on the former perhaps, but still). It was time, he decided, for a truly stupid approach.

“Let’s be honest,” he said to Moseh, “you’re not going to come up with another Plan and frankly the last one wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Moreover, the problem with going down swinging—a sword that is, not at the end of a rope—is that, in the end, you still go down. I hate to say it, but I think it might be time to surrender.”

“And how, exactly, does that avoid the end result of, as you said, going down swinging?” Moseh asked.

Jack finished buttoning his cassock and waved a hand at the room. “We’re not getting out of here,” he said. “If we surrender we can confess, plead guilty and use the hostages to negotiate Not Being Tortured and instead simply get a quick execution.”

“When was a quick execution part of the Plan?” Moseh asked.

“We still have the lock picks,” Jack explained. “And ironically, we’ve higher odds of escaping from another gaol than we do from escaping from this fucking tower. In any case, there’s no sense in us getting our hostages killed and then dying anyway.”

“Not that a flea-ridden, pox-crazed sodomite would know anything about honour,” Jeronimo said, “but you may be right.”

Moseh prodded forlornly at the bits of wood that had been part of one of his previous escape attempts. “Considering that my next Plan involved…well, our painful and slow deaths actually, surrender might be our last real option.”

Before they could come up with a final draft of the conditions of their surrender, there was the sound of something large exploding somewhere nearby in the building, and the floor of the tower vibrated with the impact. A second explosion was accompanied by the sound of screams and the heavy footsteps of many guards running away from the tower and towards whatever and whomever was causing all the panic.

“New Plan,” Jack said.

*****

It was amazing, Jack Shaftoe thought as a crowd fled before him, how easy it was to create panic and chaos with a little alchemy and religious imagery. Also, the Madonna statue had set the shrine on fire, which in turn had set the nearby Church on fire, and from there the fire had spread to several neighbouring buildings. Some people were trying to flee, some dragging their belongings from the burning structures, others were trying to put the fires out, some industrious, civic-minded souls had taken it upon themselves to start a general riot, and still more were trying to catch him. 

Good luck to the flat-footed sons of bitches, Jack thought, clambering up onto the rooftops. It was likely that some bright spark might realize that it would be far easier to go into the building he was standing atop, go up the stairs and come at him that way. Instead his pursuers were trying to figure out how to climb up after him. Jack expressed his disdain for them with a few choice insults and a mocking little jig.

The fire crackled next to him, great billows of black smoke rising up and Jack swung his glowing cloak in a wide arc and bowed to his audience. He had a nice little speech on the tip of his tongue, a fare thee well worthy of his demonic persona, when very abruptly his cloak was no longer glowing, it was burning.

The Imp watched Jack fling the cloak away from him with a thoughtful look on its reptilian face. _Must’ve been dried by the fire,_ it said and then grinned at him with a mouthful of sharp little teeth. 

That was about the time Jack’s shirt and trousers, also covered in the alchemical glow dried out as well and burst into flame.

*****

Jack, Moseh, and Jeronimo did the only logical thing when faced with an apparent Sudden Distraction: each grabbed a hostage, and they burst out of their tower like a soul from the depths of Hades. Moseh and Jeronimo had each grabbed the nearest person, while Jack, after some hemming and hawing between her and the largest (and therefore best suited as a shield) woman, had chosen Eliza. A human shield was only as good as your own willingness to let her take a crossbow bolt to the chest, he decided, and, despite her protests, she was soon being dragged down the hallway along with the two other fugitives and two other hostages. 

“I shall proclaim your innocence to the courts!” the fencing master called after them. “Godspeed!” Moseh and Jeronimo both rolled their eyes, for no reason that Jack could discern.

“Head towards the explosions,” Jack called back to his comrades, pushing Eliza along before him. It was generally a bad strategy, but Jack figured that where there was chaos, there was an escape, no matter what had caused the chaos, and he dared to hope that the chaos might have been caused, not by random happenstance, but by people who genuinely wished them well. If so, they had achieved their end; the hallway was empty of guards. 

Down by the harbour there was the sound of a broadside being fired and Jack watched the _Pearl_ slowly come about, catching the wind and steering away from the port, getting away before anyone could do any damage to her. Probably not even doing that much damage herself, since the fort set up at the harbor was a great beast of a thing, but enough to draw soldiers down to it.

Somewhere on the far side of town smoke was rising in thick black clouds and there was the sound of a far off explosion followed by more smoke. 

This, Jack thought, had some forethought to it. The only questions were who was behind it, what did they want, and was he impossibly lucky enough that it might be a rescue?

“Jack!”

Jack knew that particular bellow like the back of his hand. He spun about, dragging Eliza with him, and sure enough, there was Anamaria, stained with gunpower and someone else’s blood grinning at him.

“The others?” she said but from the look on her face she’d already spotted Moseh and Jeronimo behind him. Anamaria’s eyes were suspiciously wet and she wiped at her nose with her wrist. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” she said to Moseh who foolishly let go of his hostage so he could haul Anamaria in, bloody clothing, weapons and all, and kiss her. 

Eliza made a squawking, affronted sound and the other hostage ran like the devil hisself was behind her and disappeared into the crowd.

“Oh shut it,” Jack said to Eliza, then, louder: “This is all very romantic I’m sure, but I’ve got a ship I’d like to get to before—Jamie Martingale you take one more step and…” 

Jamie Martingale, pretty face lit up with joy, a gunbelt over one shoulder and a musket over the other, was a good man to have at your back in a battle seeing as he had the uncanny ability to hit what he aimed at no matter the way the powder was poured or which way the wind was blowing. He was a fine sailor and a loyal friend but god love him, he was a bit of a slut and not always able to divine when it was inappropriate to engage in carnal acts. While escaping from a Spanish port, with the Inquisition and the Royal Guard hot on their heels after setting the city on fire was probably not the best place as opposed to, say, some place on the Pearl while they were all safe and sound and unshot and untortured. 

Of course, once Jamie got his hands on Jeronimo, it was unlikely that anyone was going to be able to pry him off (or would want to, for that matter, seeing as Jamie’s ability to get naked in seconds was remarkable).

“Jamie,” Jack said again and shook his head. Being an incorrigible sort of lad, Jamie settled for blowing a kiss to Jeronimo and leaning in past Eliza to plant one on Jack’s cheek.

“Glad you’re alright, Captain,” Jamie said.

Jack realized, later, that he remembered remarkably little of the process of fighting their way out. He was deliriously happy at seeing his crew, not to mention just a little bit frightened out of his mind, and the combination did not make for particularly coherent mental processes. 

It was for that reason that he was surprised to realize, when they reached the relative safety of the dark streets, where there was, just audible in the distance, the sound of a commotion that had fortuitously drawn away any guards that might otherwise have interfered with their plans, that Eliza was still being dragged along with them. Ah well. One never knew when a hostage might be necessary, but he intended to drop her the moment they reached the Pearl . 

“What,” Moseh asked, pointing in the direction of a glow above the rooftops, which seemed to coincide, geographickally, with the sounds of chaos Jack had noticed before, “is that?” 

“A fire,” Jeronimo said, tearing his fond gaze away from Jamie to look at Moseh with a greatly unimpressed expression. “You fucking imbecile. Or did you think the sun had chosen to rise in the south? At goddamned midnight.” 

“That,” Anamaria said. “Is Shaftoe. And if he ain’t got himself killed yet, Captain, I weren’t sure whether you’d like me to do it, or if you wanted that for yourself. But he’s meeting us at the Pearl , or so he says.” 

Jack Sparrow did a quick mental evaluation. He was out of prison, mostly unhurt, and there were no guards, which ought to have raised his suspicions in the first place. He bit the inside of his cheek, and yanked rather hard on a handful of his hair, before deciding that no, he was not in fact dreaming. “Now wait just a moment,” he said, when sure he was awake. “Jack Shaftoe is alive? And in Spain? In some form of communication with you?”

*****

Where Jack Shaftoe was, was on fire. He was beginning to wish emphatically that he was not. 

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhh!” he said to the Imp, batting at his clothing which only hurt him and did nothing to combat the problem. He repeated his previous statement to his companion, which gained him no more joy in solving his conundrum the second time than it had the first. It was about that time that Jack realized that he was not on fire. His clothing was on fire. It was an incredibly fortunate bit of happenstance and as the situation was not likely to remain so much longer, Jack took advantage and nearly did himself further injury taking off his clothing faster than any human being had ever removed garments before. 

He flung the offending flaming clothing down at the gathering mob and turned to where the Imp was laughing itself sick. “You’re a pain in the fucking arse,” Jack said, naked save for the sword he’d had the good sense not to chuck off the roof with everything else. As he had spent a great deal of time in similar states, this troubled him not at all. Never the sort inclined towards shyness, knowing that the Remnant negated all need for musings about one’s adequacy made strutting about in the altogether a much simpler procedure. 

The Imp hopped up on his shoulder, a better vantage from which to admire the destruction they had caused. _Where to now, Jack my Jack?_ it asked. 

“Well…to the _Pearl_ , of course,” Jack said. “It’s what I said I’d do, ain’t it? And I’m naked, and recently on fire, I have an angry mob of incensed papists after me, and I ain’t exactly in the frame of mind to work out a new Plan. It’s the old one or nothing, I’m afraid.” 

_Time was,_ the Imp hissed in his ear _when my Jack wouldn’t need no plan, no plan at all, just run and fun and dash and swoop and flashing fire would follow my Jack. And now you chase after a Plan? A Plan won’t do you no good, will it, wave a Plan against a mob of incensed papists and see how much it slows them down, why don’t you?_

“Shut it,” Jack said succinctly, and dashed across the rooftops towards the edge of town, wind cool on the barely-singed skin of his legs, shoulder, and torso. His smallclothes had fortuitously protected his arse and Remnant, not that further damage would make much of a difference at this point, but a man had to protect what little he had. 

_And what will Sparrow say?_ the Imp whispered. _What will he say and do, do to you, when he sees you again? After what you did to him, and your friends, Jack, will they welcome you back, or will they take their revenge, as you did, when you learned they’d lied to you?_

Jack decided to ignore the Imp entirely, an approach he felt he should have adopted years ago, and legged it. The ship might not even be there when he arrived, in which case a new plan might be necessary, but for the moment, he had none, and was content to stick with what little structure his future seemed to have. 

Despite his sojourn as a lady of means strapped into That Wretched Dress, and his slightly longer sojourn chained to That Wretched Oar, Jack had spent most of his life tramping about the countryside and as he got out of the city limits his body started to remember this. The long stride, the feeling of baked earth and various grasses under the hard, dirty soles of his feet. It felt good to be back in the wide open and Jack broke into a brief jog. Apparently, after his mad dash out of the city, his body had no desire to remember running and he stopped, a trifle winded, and returned to walking.

As it turned out, one vagabond striding briskly along with surprisingly great purpose moved a great deal faster than a scattered handful of brigands, unused to actually walking for long periods of time, and one reluctant hostage. Jack was very good at spotting the posture of someone being brought along on an adventure despite their own aversion to the venture.

Instead of slowing, Jack sped up just a little, the Imp clinging on, lest it be thrown from his shoulder. As little as he liked to admit it, the Imp was right. It seemed highly unlikely that Sparrow was going to be feeling generous, but Jack had, after all, helped save him—assuming of course that he was alive, and not in pieces somewhere in a cell, which was something that Jack was not thinking about—and besides that, well, he’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

_What’s the_ Plan _now?_ the Imp asked mockingly.

The sensible thing would be a Hail Fellow Well Met from a respectable distance and negotiate from there. Jack put on a final burst of speed and caught up to the pirates. “You don’t move half slowly,” he said, slowing, but while his mouth was moving one way he was scanning the soot-smeared faces and Jeronimo, Moseh, yes, yes, it was good to see them Jack supposed but where was Sparrow?

Then, oh, there he was, looking dirty and tired and utterly furious, one hand reaching for the pistol he was carrying. Jack was possessed of the urge to do something foolish like try and put his hands on Sparrow, to see for himself that Sparrow was whole and truly safe, and he took a step forwards. Sparrow took a step backwards. 

“Well,” Sparrow said, yanking on the wrist that he was holding, dragging the hostage towards their reunion, talking to his hostage, though he was looking at Jack. “Look who’s come to save you.”


	18. In Which Bonds are Both Repaired and Broken

“What the Hell are you doing with Eliza?” Shaftoe demanded, but any possible response was quickly drowned out. Everyone was talking at once, and Jack Sparrow wasn’t sure who he ought to be listening to. Anamaria was saying something about it being up to Jack entirely whether Shaftoe ought to live or die, while warning Shaftoe to stay where he was until a decision had been reached on that front, and making creative suggestions as to the myriad of options available should they choose to pursue a violent course of action. Moseh was hemming and hawing to Jack in Manhatto about how their prior oath to have vengeance on Shaftoe might or might not be altered in light (haha) of his apparently sterling work with incendiaries. Eliza was calling for Shaftoe to save her from her captors, Jeronimo was cursing a blue streak while Jamie ruefully said how much he had missed said form of expression, and meanwhile Shaftoe, if he was making some appeal on behalf of his own life, was utterly inaudible in the din. Jack raised a hand, and when that failed to have any noticeable effect, bellowed “QUIET” at the top of his lungs.

“Mister Shaftoe,” he said, not loosening his grip on Eliza, who, alone among the contributors to the cacophony, was still shouting. “I am as amazed at your continued presence, not to say existence, as anyone, but now is not the time to—madam, would you desist?—discuss what’s to be done with you. If you would be so good as to surrender your sword to any member of this party, you may join us.”

Shaftoe, to Jack’s utter lack of surprise, was contrary. “Why would I do that, and who said I wanted to join you?” he said, giving an unconcerned shrug that caused his ash-streaked torso to move in ways that, due to his nudity and Jack’s recent period of stressful celibacy, were far more interesting to Jack than the occasion ought to have dictated. “Maybe I just stopped by to see if you were alive, and am about to be on my way.” 

Unsurprisingly, Jack felt no particular obligation to respond. “I do not offer you a choice, Mister Shaftoe,” he said. “Your conduct is under sufficient question that, like it or not, you will be accompanying us to our destination, so that your fate may be decided. The only option I am offering you is that of surrendering your sword now, and peacefully joining our little band so that we may determine what’s to be done, or being shot now, on the spot.” On cue, Anamaria raised a cocked pistol, and after some hesitation, so did Jamie Martingale. It was good, Jack thought, to have his crew back.

Shaftoe hesitated, clutching his lowered sword, his eyes moving between Jack and Eliza. “That’s fucking ridiculous,” he said. “I didn’t get you into this, and I helped get you out of it. Why should I—”

“If your loyalty has been as constant as you say,” Jack interrupted, “then you obviously have nothing to fear from our eventual decision. Nevertheless, your choices are to surrender your sword and come with us, or be shot, and this is what one might call a time-sensitive decision.” 

Shaftoe muttered something to his left shoulder, and tossed the sword to the ground at the group’s feet. “Getting bloody tiresome anyway,” he said, “carrying that thing without a scabbard.”

Jack gestured for him to get to the center of the group, and they commenced their escape again, Eliza now oddly silent, which Jack could only assume meant that she was planning something that would inconvenience him greatly. He chose to concentrate on that, rather then on the reappearance of Jack Shaftoe, and the complications that was inevitably going to bring to his life. Eliza they could dump as soon as they rejoined the Pearl, and as long as no one said anything about where they might be bound (and indeed, no one seemed to have any ideas about that yet anyway), her eventual return to her friends (and possibly, as Jack dearly hoped, her eventual trial for witchcraft) back in Puerto Mentirosos could do them no harm, and her tales would doubtless only add to Jack’s increasingly surreal reputation. Whether she might try to enlist Shaftoe’s aid in trying to escape was a matter to consider, but Jack was slightly less worried about that than perhaps he ought to have been. After all, if Shaftoe’s claim to be loyal to the Pearl and the Cabal (Jack had originally felt that the Cabal had joined the crew of the Pearl; he was now starting to wonder if, perversely, it had not been the other way ‘round) proved false, he would not remain alive enough to help her, or to present a threat to anyone, for very long. It could all, he decided, as they neared the port where the _Pearl_ had agreed to rendezvous with them, be resolved without undue complication.

********

Running while naked was a skill Jack Shaftoe had had occasion to learn long ago, and he found that it, like so many skills, was not easily forgotten. The ease with which he avoided brambles and shielded his Remnant from damage allowed his mind to wander to other matters, notably the rather cool reception he had found upon reuniting with his erstwhile friends. He sidled up to Moseh, with whom, he decided, he shared the closest ties having been chained directly next to him for so very long. "Hope there are no hard feelings," he said, in his lightest, airiest tone. "Not my intention, you know, you finding Sparrow like that and the Inquisition finding the both of you. Hope we've put it past us."

Moseh looked at Jack askance, while Anamaria, who was running alongside him, looked at him with a far more actively displeased expression. "Twas only happenstance that caused me to be found in such a suspicious tableu with Captain Sparrow," Moseh admitted. "And I doubt you intended for my room to be searched, or where aware of what might be found there."

"And he did come to find me as soon as he realized there was trouble," Anamaria added, in what Jack considered an unexpected, though not unappreciated moment of fairness on her part. 

"Considering your lack of ill intent, coupled with your recent, shall we say, auto de fe," Moseh said, "There are, as you say, no hard feelings between us, Jack."

"I'm glad," Jack said. "And I, in turn, forgive you for lying to me and treating me like an idiot." That was two he could safely view as being on his side, which left only three more, plus Eliza (who was herself a category too confusing to be considered with everyone else). He approached Jeronimo next.

Jeronimo's jaw remained bandaged (relative silence as they traveled being of the occasional essence), but Jack actually saw that as a positive thing. "Jeronimo, old mate," he began, but before he could conclude, Jamie had freed Jeronimo's mouth, and he knew he would get no opportunity to do so.

After the usual pent-up profanity, Jeronimo let out a weary sigh. "You're a pox-crazed idiot, Jack Shaftoe," he said. "And you're no more responsible for the foolish things you do as a result of that condition than I am for what the demon causes me to say. You may consider us quit of any enmity." 

"And I suppose that goes for me as well," Jamie said. "Since the same madness that made you call on Eliza also made you set yourself alight to help set everyone free."

So that was that, Jack thought, as he continued to jog along with the group, now satisfied that of the six of them, four were now his firm allies. Sparrow was going to be a mite more complicated. After all, in addition to betraying him, Jack had, in fact, struck him quite hard on the head, not to mention tied him up (without permission), a fact that certainly justified a fair degree of anger on Sparrow's part. But Sparrow was showing no inclination to talk to him, or even look at him, and so Jack decided to let the matter rest for now. Four victories was more than enough for one day.

_Decided you've done enough, have you, Jack?_ the Imp said. _Not afraid, are you, not afraid to find out what he might say if you were to say you were sorry._

"I don't know what you mean," Jack whispered, and carried on with running.

*********

They kept moving through the night, and were still a mile or two from the coast when they were hailed by a voice from the bushes, and Gabriel stepped into view in the faint light of dawn, beckoning them to follow him. As unexpected as his appearance was, Jack Sparrow wondered for a moment if he were not some apparition of his own lunatick mind, similar in provenance to whatever it was that always had Shaftoe talking to the air around him, but when Gabriel goggled at them and expressed disbelief that they had Eliza with them, Jack decided that an apparition would be better informed, and ran towards him, the rest of the group following behind him.

“Glad I caught you,” Gabriel said, once everyone was off the road and concealed behind some particularly prickly bushes. “There’s soldiers patrolling all along the coast, and you’re about to run straight into them. Now, the _Pearl_ is safely lurking in a highly inaccessible little inlet, and I have a boat concealed down near the water with which we may, when the soldiers leave, return to the ship and make our escape.” 

“Yes, and it’s good to see you alive and in one piece too, Gabriel,” Jack said. “What do we do until the soldiers leave, then? Crouch in this bush?”

“I know I’m halfway to being a hostage and therefore oughtn’t to have a vote,” Shaftoe piped up, “but can we not do that? Crouching naked in a bush full of thorns is not my idea of a good time, or a good reward for helping you lot to escape the Inquisition.”

Gabriel had obviously had years of practice ignoring Jack Shaftoe as he did not so much as glance in Shaftoe's direction. “There is a small cave a little ways up yonder hill,” he said. “We can shelter there for the day, and slip down to the coast under cover of night. Gibbs is already waiting for us, with food and water.” 

The notion of food and water was suddenly so overwhelmingly appealing that Jack could hardly think of anything else. Well, food, water, and sleep. Now that he had stopped running, he was acutely aware of the fact that he had been doing so for almost a full twenty-four hours, without rest, and that prior to that he had been spending tense, sleepless days and nights trying to intimidate hostages while he himself was more than terrified enough for all of them. “Lead on,” he said to Gabriel. “And remind me, when I am not in danger of death, to thank this entire crew for showing such initiative.” 

***********

The cave was uncomfortably low ceilinged, its floor was bare, craggy rock, and it had a persistent smell suggesting that prior to the arrival of its current occupants, vagrants had made use of it for both shelter and a place to relieve themselves. But it was, once some brush had been dragged across the front, well out of sight, and it seemed to the group at large that it would serve admirably as a shelter and a place to hide. Jack Shaftoe appeared to be alone in holding the opinion that a moment spent hiding in the cave was a moment that might more effectively been spent doing, quite literally, anything else, anywhere else. He had, when they first arrived in the cave, been hoping that Sparrow would hold to his original promise to decide promptly what the official policy of the _Pearl_ was on the matter of Jack's continued survival. Once a decision had been made, Jack had assumed, he would be able to relax, if the decision proved favorable, or flee, if it proved otherwise. The intervening period, short though it would be, would provide Jack and the Imp with the time to discuss the presence of Eliza, and plan a course of action from there.

Such efficient decision-making did, not, however, appear to be what the Fates had planned. The whole crew was so exhausted when they reached the cave that they could barely accept the food and water that Gibbs had waiting for them, and once said items had been consumed, Sparrow yawned, announced a watch schedule for the next few hours, and sprawled out in a corner of the cave to sleep. Jeronimo and Jamie were soon off on their own in some dark corner, as were Moseh and Anamaria (separate corners, presumably, but with similar intent), leaving Gibbs and Gabriel to guard the cave, and Eliza, and possibly Jack, though he wasn't altogether sure of that. Since Gibbs was watching the cave entrance, and Gabriel was engaged with some book or other, which he was poring over by the light of a lantern, it seemed to Jack, and the Imp, the perfect moment to have a bit of a chin wag with Eliza. Now that his nether regions were safely covered by a gratefully-accepted blanket, he felt a little more comfortable speaking to a lady.

Jack was careful to confer with the Imp before entering the conversation. It struck him that doing so would significantly reduce the chance of the Imp offering its contribution to the conversation at an inconvenient or embarrassing moment. He wanted (to borrow the phrasing a literate person such as Gabriel, Moseh, or indeed, Eliza, might use) to make sure that he and the Imp were on the same page. "I'm not going to profess my love," Jack told the Imp sternly. 

_And why not,_ the Imp said slyly. 

"Well," Jack said, "obviously, because the situation is rather complicated, in case you haven't noticed."

The Imp smiled, its teeth glinting in the light of Gabriel's lantern. _Simple, Jack, couldn't be simpler, now that Sparrow's back, Sparrow and Eliza, the two of them here, the two to compare, and you can see for yourself how wrong you were to leave one for the other._

Jack could only stare at the Imp in shock. "You told me to leave him for her!" he whispered. "Back at the palace, you...look, never mind. The point is, I don't want to do anything that's going to get anyone killed." He sighed, and looked unhappily at the Imp. It had, for many years, been his sole confidant, and it had never really occurred to him to wonder whether it was in fact in any way worth listening to. "The fact is, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't...well, my love for her, I mean. It may have been the syphilis talking. To a certain extent."

The Imp, however, seemed already to have forgotten that Jack had ever loved Eliza in the first place, which was all well and good as far as Jack was concerned. It wasn't that she wasn't perfect; she was, and the memory of their time together still lingered in his mind, yet he couldn't help but notice, upon current, less-syphilitic reflection, that he had spent an awful lot of said time carrying her bags. And worshiping her from a respectful distance. All of which had made a great deal of sense at the time, but in some way he couldn't quite recall to his mind. Whatever he had felt for her, it had gone, probably around the time he awoke to find himself the subject of a Papist funeral on the deck of the _Pearl._

_So, then, you won't tell her you love her,_ the Imp said, _Won't tell her you'll help her, won't tell her you're sorry, won't tell her you and she'll run off together, traipse around the world again?_

"What?" Jack said. "No. I mean, I don't intend to." Finding Eliza had been his one and only goal for so long that it seemed mad, even by Jack's own standards, not to try to at least talk to her. By the time he actually came to that decision, however, Eliza (who was unbound, having agreed to cause no trouble, a promise that was made somewhat irrelevant by the presence of Mister Gibbs and a musket at the mouth of the cave) had sidled up to Gabriel. 

"We have not," Jack barely heard her whisper, "been introduced. My name is Eliza, Countessa de la Zeur."

Gabriel looked a little affronted at having been interrupted in his reading. "I had, in fact, surmised as much," he said. "I am Father Gabriel Goto, and I suggest that you remain seated, and make no sudden movements during the remainder of your stay with us."

What Eliza said in response to that, Jack could not hear, but it caused Gabriel to draw himself up (as much as one could draw oneself up, in that treacherously low cave) in an extremely affronted manner. "Perhaps you failed to notice the word 'Father' when I introduced myself," he said, "but I am a priest, madam, a Jesuit priest. And you are a prisoner, which would make what you suggest morally suspect on my part even if I were not under a vow of chastity."

Eliza appeared a little affronted at this response to whatever it was she had said, but she nodded more or less resignedly, and returned to her seat by the wall. "I hope," she said, after a few moments of what Jack thought must have been rather embarrassed silence, "you will not mind if I go to the mouth of the cave for a breath of air?"

Gabriel shrugged, and caught Gibbs' eye. Gibbs, from his position guarding the entrance to the cave, nodded, but he repositioned himself slightly and put the musket he was holding on full cock. Eliza, stooping gracefully under the low ceiling, traversed the length of the cave, and seated herself beside Gibbs. "Ma'am," he grunted.

Eliza made a kind of deep nod that was the best one could do for a curtsy when sitting down. The two remained in silence for a moment, before Eliza leaned closer to him, and said something to him, once again too quietly for Jack to hear. Gibbs looked, from where Jack was sitting, more shocked than Gabriel had. "You're young enough to be my daughter, missy," he said. "And if you were, I'd've seen to it you grew up learnin' a mite more respect for yourself and the menfolk you meet than you've just shown." He wrapped his boat clock more tightly around himself, and stared darkly out of the mouth of the cave, muttering various Gibbsian things that Jack could only assume related to the dire state of the morals of the youth of today. Eliza sighed deeply, and withdrew, returning, not to her previous spot, to a patch of relatively smooth stone beside Jack's own designated resting place.

"Jack Shaftoe," she murmured. She always was a great one for the murmuring, Jack thought. "It's been a long time. I'm pleased to see the years have been kind to you."

"I was a galley slave for most of them," Jack said. "That's not particularly kind, in my opinion. How've you been? Last time I saw you, you were throwing an harpoon at me."

"Yes," she said. "But I see that you have suffered greatly, and—"

"Hang on," Jack said, "you just said the years were kind to me. Make up your mind, won't you?"

"The point is," Eliza said, growing perhaps a little frustrated, "is that we know each other of old, and I think it fair to say that you bore some affection for me in the past."

"I suppose so," Jack said, but the Imp was hopping up and down on his shoulder, reminding him that she was the one who had called down the Inquisition, that if it hadn't been for her, none of this would have happened, and finally Jack had to point this fact out to her. "You did not seem so fond of me a few days ago," he said, "when you drew a gun upon me and called the palace guard to search my rooms."

"That was a mistake, Jack," she said, angling her body towards him. "Can't you see that what I'm trying to say is—"

"Seems to me," Jack said, "that whatever affection you're offering me now, you're doing it looking towards a means of escape. And since you've already offered as much to both Gabriel and Gibbs, you'll excuse me for saying it doesn't look overly sincere on your part. I decline."

Eliza glared at him, made a sound that Jack could swear he'd last heard coming from the throat of an enraged alley cat, and made a wild, desperate run for the mouth of the cave. Gibbs stepped into her way, blocking her easily, and Gabriel lept up, dragging her back. "I think it's time we restrained you, madam," Gabriel said. "We have allowed you your freedom, and you have abused the privilege." 

Jack determinedly looked the other way as Eliza was tied up, which was how he noticed that Sparrow, though lying in a posture designed to indicate sleep, was most definitely awake, and had likely been watching and listening for quite some time. There was nothing in particular Jack could do about that, besides look resentfully at him. "Eavesdropping is considered rude in polite society, I'm told," he said stuffily. Sparrow yawned theatrically, and rolled over to face the wall of the cave, but he had, Jack was certain, seen all.

When Jack went to sleep, Eliza was trussed up and disgruntled on the other side of the cave, and the Imp was smug. He decided to pretend that neither of them existed, and went to sleep, dreaming of simpler solutions to complicated problems. When he awoke, however, Eliza was gone—her bonds lying frayed and split next to a sharpish bit of rock—Gibbs was shouting, and everyone was looking at Jack.


	19. In Which Further Escapes are Made

Prior to Eliza's disappearance, Jack Sparrow had been enjoying a relaxing lean against the wall near the mouth of the cave. Tired as he was, he'd found himself less able to sleep than he'd hoped, and since Anamaria and Moseh, who were meant to be on watch, seemed to find each other's presence rather distracting, he had more or less taken over the post, while they had moved a little towards the back of the cave. 

He was considering Jack Shaftoe, and the conversation he had overheard between said fellow and Eliza, which was complicating his earlier decision to kill Shaftoe dead the moment he saw him. It was, in fact, complicating that determination almost as much as the physical presence of Jack Shaftoe himself, which was, among other things, an unwanted and unhelpful reminder of why the betrayal had hurt so much in the first place. He liked Shaftoe, and, in the way of a person who feels affection for another, wanted Shaftoe to like him, too. The betrayal had stung, both because it put Jack into very real danger of his life, and because it was a rejection of the feelings that he thought he had made so obvious. What Shaftoe had just said to Eliza, however, suggested that the situation might not be all that bad. Jack was considering this possibility, and trying to decide just how he felt about Shaftoe anyway, considering all that had transpired between them, when he was struck from behind in the head, with what felt like a very large rock. He staggered to the floor of the cave, temporarily stunned, retaining enough consciousness to reflect that this happened to him far more often than he would have liked, the whole being knocked unconscious business. The really unpleasant thing about it, he thought irrelevantly, was that it was usually someone he had reason to trust doing this to him, so in a way it was almost refreshing that the person knocking him out in this instance was very probably Eliza. He spared a moment, while staring at the ground through a haze of undulating black spots, to metaphorically tip his hat at her resourcefulness, and decide that she was, in many ways, a worthy adversary. Or at least an adversary.

Two other persons had rushed past him while he was debating unconsciousness and regurgitation, and it was Moseh who returned first, looking very much like he had been dragged through a hedge, backwards. He was wearing nothing but a pair of very ripped and dusty trousers, and a sheepish expression, visible beneath an assortment of cuts and bruises. "It it is very difficult," he said, in answer to the unasked question in the eyes of Jack, as well as Jamie, Jeronimo, Gibbs, Shaftoe, and Gabriel, all of whom had been awaken by the commotion and were now standing by the mouth of the cave, "to run downhill with one's trousers around one's ankles. Rather, it is very easy, in that the bottom of the hill is soon reached, but difficult in that one is in no condition, upon arrival, to do anything particularly useful. Eliza has escaped."

"And why," Gibbs said, Jack still not having found the power of speech, though he was starting to get woozily to his feet, "did you have your trousers around your ankles when you were meant to be keeping watch?"

As if in reply, Anamaria appeared, walking up the same hill that Moseh had apparently just climbed. She did not have her trousers around any part of her anatomy, or indeed, any clothing on at all, and she crossed her arms in a gesture that was less modest than it was annoyed. "Jack said he would keep watch," she said. "And now ain't the time to assign blame; Eliza's faster than she looks, she's gone, and she'll have the soldiers on us in no time. We need to run, now."

"You know," Shaftoe said, "when you think about it, keeping a hostage in a cave with an obvious open mouth, tying her up with ropes easily cut by a sharp bit of rock, and keeping only three guards, one sleepy and the other two amorous, was a stupid idea to being with."

It occurred to Jack, in a continuation of the thought that had been so rudely interrupted by the application of a largish rock to the back of his head, that what Jack Shaftoe was was essentially mad, with a tendency to do and say whatever fool thing popped into his head at any given moment. It was an aggravating habit, to be sure, but without it he doubtless would never have found his way into Jack's bed, so it was difficult for Jack to find fault with it. Besides, it was a habit Jack was not afraid to admit he shared. The urge to murder Shaftoe was fading with every passing moment, and Jack found he was not particularly sorry to see it go. "Anamaria is correct," Jack said. "Flight is more important than blame at the moment. Let us hope that we can reach the water without encountering opposition."

*******

Dawn was approaching as they left the cave. Jack Shaftoe, who had been covering his nudity with a blanket for the last few hours, found himself now wearing an overlarge jacket donated to him by Gabriel, which did not precisely do the job for which it was intended, but helped keep the briars off him, which was good, as Moseh's face and arms were currently an ample demonstration of how dangerous those could be. He was surprised, and quite gratified, by the fact that no one seemed to be trying to blame him for Eliza's escape. Surprised, because it was so very clear that this group largely considered anything bad that happened in the world to be his fault, just because he had made one tiny mistake, and gratifying because the lack of blame suggested that that situation was changing, and that Jack might soon be able to to consider himself a part of this group again. It was while they were tearing along through the woods, the soldiers no doubt close on their trail, that Jack realized just how much he was enjoying himself, and found himself hoping rather fervently that he would be allowed to stay. It was rare that he found himself in the company of one as mad as himself, and Sparrow seemed to fit that bill nicely. The rest of them weren't so bad either, when they weren't letting Eros steer them away from their duties or blaming Jack for things.

The running through the woods though, that particular action, though representative of a sort of adventuring lifestyle of which Jack was quite fond, was growing just a bit tiresome, as was the sense of terror that came with the very likely close proximity of the soldiers who were looking for all of them. Once or twice they heard the distant shouts of what sounded very much like officers directing their men to search, which did not bode well considering that the men chasing them knew the area far better than they did, and had the advantage of having probably just spoken to Eliza, which meant that they knew exactly where the whole lot of them had just fled from. No, it did not bode well, and Shaftoe doubted that the trail they were leaving through the woods was any sort of subtle. 

The not-so-distant sounds of other individual moving through the forest had become unmistakeable by the time the sun came up, so Jack supposed it was inevitable that they would be caught eventually, and was not overly surprised when someone appeared from between the trees, pointing a rifle at them. What did surprise him was that it was not a member of the Spanish religious or secular authorities, but a wizened, dour-looking elderly man, who glared at them all down the barrel of his rifle as they all stopped running, crashing into each other in a somewhat undignified way in the process.

The old man removed his pipe from his mouth, though he made no move to reposition the gun. "You with _them_?" he demanded, in tones that suggested it ought to have been obvious whom he meant.

Sparrow regarded his crew, who, with the exception of Jack, were all holding weapons, which seemed to Jack not to phase the man at all. "I would hate to be inaccurate as a result of speaking from ignorance" Sparrow said. "Who might them be?"

"El gobierno," the man said, managing to expel more saliva in four syllables and a single rolled-out r than Jack believed most people possessed in their bodies at any given time. He lowered his gun slightly. "Bastards came by my house earlier," he said. "Looking for fugitives, they said, pirates, pagans, rapists, kidnappers, Jews, witches, priest-impersonators, sodomites, thieves, murderers, and I don't know what else. Course you can't go around believing anything _they_ tell you; they lie as easy as they breathe, the no-good bastards."

Jack leaned over to the nearest person to him, which happened to be Jamie. "Is he on our side, then?" he asked.

Jamie shrugged helplessly, and looked at Gibbs, who looked at the two of them as though they were idiots. "He's just said," he said irritably. "Ain't you been listening?"

"Forgive me," Jack said. "The language of cantankerous old loons has never been one of which I boast a deep understanding."

Evidently, Gibbs had been correct, because the man gestured for them to follow him. "Damn government," he said. "Think it's their business to tell the rest of us how to live our lives. Always interfering and taxing till a man can't call his land his own. If they're looking for you, I'd as soon hide you as let them have the satisfaction. Come on, this way, I've a barn that they'e never found anything untoward in, not even the tax men, and those bastards look hard."

Jack would have had more trouble believing their luck in finding such an eager and enthusiastic ally, were it not for the fact that, in his extensive experience, peculiar old men with an abiding loathing for authority were as common as flies in most parts of the world, particularly the rural areas, and such fellows could generally be relied upon to do what was opposed to the interests of the government, which was, as often as not, in the interest of Jack Shaftoe. The idea that someone would help him merely because of a sort of abstract hope that to do so would annoy the king brought a kind of glow to Jack's heart, and he was not ashamed to say that he felt a welling of pride and affection for the human race in general as the old man led them to his aforementioned imperceptible barn. 

The whole lot of them settled into a dark, cramped root cellar beneath the barn, which, Jack did have time to notice while the trapdoor was open, seemed to be full of barrels of what was probably contraband of some kind. "Well," Jack said, when the old man had left them with his promise to confound those government buggers any way he could, "this has been a week or two of extremely varied sorts of accommadations, for Captain Sparrow and Moseh in particular." That coaxed a chuckle out of someone in the dark. He was fairly certain it had been Sparrow, though he wouldn't swear to it.

Above their heads, they could hear an official sounding voice inquiring to the whereabouts of a number of miscreants.

"Aye, they were here," the old man said, and Jack silently cursed himself and everyone else involved for being credulous enough to take the word of a crazy old coot who claimed to be sympathetic when there was a possible cash reward available. "Asked me the way to Madrid, and I told them," he added, redeeming himself entirely. "Went that way." Jack could not see in what direction the man was pointing, but he was fairly certain it bore no relationship to the root cellar. 

When the sound of the soldiers faded into the distance, the trapdoor opened and the grinning face of the old man appeared, haloed in sunlight. "Whatever you done's got 'em riled!" he said happily. "Now get a move on, before they come back."

They did as they were told, and found the boat where Gabriel and Gibbs had hidden it. It would have been sensible to go in two trips, as the boat wasn't built to hold quite so many, but that would have meant leaving people behind to wait, and there seemed to be a wordless agreement that this would be unacceptable. 

_Don't that bode well?_ the Imp said, scrunched up between Jack and Jeronimo as they squeezed into the boat. _Perhaps they'll keep you around after all._ Jack didn't answer, but the fact that the Imp had noticed how much he was hoping to be brought along. It was difficult, once back in the vicinity of Jack Sparrow, not to wish fervently to remain there.


	20. In Which There is a Difference Between Madness and Brilliance, But None Can At Present Discern What It Is

As he had been first Mad and then A Lady in Training, Jack Shaftoe knew approximately bugger all about helping to sail the _Pearl_ but he figured that if any group of men started hauling on a line, he could simply insert himself into their midst and look as though he'd meant to be there all along. Either way, the sails got raised, the yards braced, and the _Pearl_ caught the wind, Spain disappearing behind them at a rather impressive rate. For all that she had a monumentally enormous arse, the _Pearl_ didn't move half quickly and Jack felt a strange moment of pride for her and her crew. It was an adventure in much the same way his vagabonding had been. Not knowing where you'd be tomorrow, the whole wide world to explore. Only you did it with a hundred other fellows, the promise of somewhere not wholly unpleasant to sleep, and ill-gotten gains to be spent on the pleasures of life.

"For all your confusion," Jack muttered to the Imp, "you have to admit that this was by far the better choice. For all you know, we might embarque upon any and all sorts of ill-conceived misadventures."

The Imp made a rude sound and began investigating one of the cannon.

Jack wondered if it could sense it had overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. "No need to sulk," he told it. "You're fond of Sparrow, even if you won't say it. In any case, I reckon he might be one of yours."

"Why aren't you wearing trousers?" Reed asked, belaying some line or other while Jack leaned against the mainmast and considered trying to look busy.

Jack scratched at a patch of skin on his shoulder which had been a little singed by the fire. It was a beautiful day, likewise the day before that, and after weeks inside trying to stay the appropriate shade of Dutchwoman, Jack suspected that the burn was partially from striding about without a shirt on. "Why does a ship with so much draught hang about in the Caribbean?" Jack asked, resolving to lounge about in the sun until he was immune to its rays. "Ask a stupid quest—"

"He set them alight," Jack Sparrow said, appearing without warning. "And if he would be so kind as to find himself another pair and meet me in the great-cabin, I'd be much obliged." His fingers trailed along the rail of the ship in an unconscious caress, already dirty about the nails. At some point, while he wasn't barking orders and being generally captainly, Sparrow had abandoned the cassock, got himself back into his usual get-up, and smeared lampblack all around his eyes. It had been a while, Jack realized, since he had seen Sparrow as Captain and not as a partner in crime in disguise. 

Jack sighed. "And who's 'he' when he's at home eh?" The Imp had abandoned its examination of the weaponry and was now regarding Sparrow with an unnervingly thoughtful look on its reptilian visage. He wanted to warn it not to get territorial, that there was more than enough Jack Shaftoe for any number of imps, but he wasn't certain that Sparrow was going to do anything other than toss him directly over the side and tell him to swim for it.

"Mister Shaftoe," Sparrow said irritably, and sashayed off.

Deciding to be the bigger man, Jack said, "Captain," loudly enough that Sparrow could hear it. Not a question, just an acknowledgment. Sparrow's step hitched for a moment, and then he was gone again.

"I need trousers," Jack announced to the crew at large, a moment before a pair of slightly small-looking breeches smacked him in the face.

Jamie Martingale was looking studiously out at the horizon. "By all means," he said, but it looked to Jack like he was trying not to smile. "Before you do permanent damage to the morale of the crew." 

Jack hauled them on—and yes, they were a trifle snug. Had he a whole cock, it would have been decidedly crushed by them—and winked at Jamie. "God forbid they should see something strange," he agreed. "This is normally such a sensible, wholesome environment."

He followed Jamie to the great-cabin, where, to his eternal frustration, Moseh, Jeronimo, Anamaria, Gabriel, Gibbs, and Sparrow were all waiting for him. There was a vacant chair, ominously facing the little cluster of his fellows, and Jack sighed and sat down in it. "Before you begin heaping accusations and insults upon my head," Jack said, "I'd like to say..." He scratched at the edges of the burn and frowned. "That is."

"Christ man," Gibbs said. "Out with it."

Jack shifted in his chair and shrugged. "Never mind."

Sparrow leaned back against the table and crossed one ankle over the other, watching Jack with a dreadfully neutral expression on his face. "In that case," he said. "It has been brought to my attention that the Cabal has seen fit to forgive you for their individual hurts, and—and you may thank Jeronimo for bringing this up—that you are quite mad and therefore I should have been less surprised when you acted accordingly. In addition, my own role in this means that I might not be, perhaps, as fair as I usually am."

Jack recalled a certain story about Sparrow holding a grudge for ten years, but decided that pointing out Sparrow's shortcomings in the forgiveness arena would not serve him well at this point. He did his best to arrange his features in what he hoped was a contrite expression, but it was one he had little practice at making.

"Therefore," Sparrow said, "I put it to this company that Jack Shaftoe, having acted against the better interests of our venture and this crew, did so with a great degree of ignorance and has shown his remorse through later actions; having put himself through a trial by fire, as it were. Those in favour of heaving him over the side?"

Anamaria winced when Moseh elbowed her in the side, but otherwise there was silence. Jack sagged a little in his chair and refused to admit that it was relief. 

Sparrow raised an eyebrow. "All those in favour of allowing him to remain with the company?" The chorus of "Ayes" was not as hardy as Jack might have wished, but they were ayes nevertheless. "Then I suggest we all get back to work," Sparrow said. "Mr. Shaftoe, if you will remain here, please."

It had not escaped Jack's notice that Sparrow had not voted at all.

*********

Jack Sparrow waited until the door to the great-cabin had closed. "What was it you were going to say?" he asked. 

Shaftoe looked away. "I get these impulses," he said and then seemed surprised by what had come out of his own mouth. Shaftoe glanced back at Jack and then carried on, gaze affixed to an uninteresting corner of the room. "Not as Jeronimo's demon comes to him, or how Moseh dreams up his plans. They're just...perverse impulses. And I've been in the habit of listening to them. Seemed to me that they're not always wrong, since they brought me to you. But they ain't always right, either."

"What is it, exactly," Jack said, "that you're getting at?" 

Shaftoe stood up then and finally, properly, looked at him. His bottom lip was dented from biting it, his cheeks and nose were sunburned and pink, and Jack wanted to hit him, or kiss him. He wasn't quite sure which. It had always been a little like that, ever since Shaftoe rose from the not-quite-dead and started making a handsome, frustrating nuisance of himself, and Jack knew himself well enough to admit he did get bored of lovers very easily. Were he to forgive Shaftoe, something he was decidedly undecided about, there was little chance of boredom, if nothing else. 

"I'm sorry," Shaftoe said. "I fucked up, and got you tortured, and you do my bloody head in."

Jack, after realizing his mouth was agape, closed it. "You what?" he said faintly.

"You do my bloody head in," Shaftoe repeated. "I don't know what to do about you, and I want you, quite a lot, and..." He deflated a little. "Anyway. I guess that's what I wanted to say. I'll jump ship at the next port, if that's what you want."

Jack uncrossed his ankles. "Are you going to going to beat me over the head again, or otherwise try and get me killed?" he asked.

For a moment Shaftoe hesitated and then he smiled at Jack, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Not on purpose," he said.

"Suppose that's all a man can ask for," Jack said. 

They stared at each other for a moment and finally Shaftoe broke and said, "Look, d'you want to—" as Jack said, "I wouldn’t be adverse to—“ at which point it seemed to Jack that talking was exceedingly unnecessary. 

It was a sign of Shaftoe’s gift for getting things right at least as often as he got them wrong that he started towards Jack before Jack had even got off the table. Shaftoe caught hold of his wrists, keeping Jack’s palms pressed to the wood, unceremoniously pushed one thigh between Jack’s legs and kissed him. Jack arched up into Shaftoe, rocking against the strong muscle, and he could feel the swell of the Remnant, see it even, through the absurdly tight breeches Shaftoe had been given. He squirmed in Shaftoe’s grip, not really trying to get away, and Shaftoe bit his lower lip, and let go of his wrists in favour of sliding his hands under Jack’s arse and pulling their hips together.

“Naked,” Jack panted against Shaftoe’s mouth. “We should be naked.” He staggered forwards, shoving Shaftoe backwards towards his bunk, pulling at his own layers, cursing for having put them all on in the first place.

By the time he had divested himself of his waistcoat, shirt, sash, boots, belt, trousers and sundries, Shaftoe had stripped out of his breeches and was lying on Jack’s bunk, one knee drawn up, and as Jack watched, Shaftoe pulled his fingers out of his mouth dripping with saliva, reached down, and pushed one inside himself.

“Oh Christ,” Jack said, feeling like all the air had gone out of him. “Put the other one in,” he said, crawling onto the bunk, crouched at Shaftoe’s feet so he could watch. He could see Shaftoe’s hole flushed pink around his finger and see the way Shaftoe’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened in a groan when he did as Jack said. 

“Touch me,” Shaftoe said, half a demand, half a plea, working his fingers out to their tips and then twisting them back in again. The muscles in his stomach bunched and relaxed and he was sweating and beautiful, and not trying to kill Jack anymore.

Jack stuck his hand blindly between the mattress and the wall, unwilling to take his eyes off Shaftoe. “Not yet,” he said. His hand closed around a flask he kept for such an occasion and he pulled it out. He tipped the oil over his palm and stroked himself. “Open yourself up for me,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

Shaftoe’s hips came up off the mattress and the veins in his forearm stood out as he managed to push the tip of a third finger inside himself. “Christ, just put your hands on me. Please, Jack.”

Jack shuffled forwards, still only hovering over Shaftoe. “Is that it?” He had to wrap a hand tightly around the base of his cock when Shaftoe’s head went back and he let out a soft sigh as his third finger slid deeper.

“Jack,” Shaftoe panted. “Don’t tease. Put it in me; I want you to fuck me.” 

Jack caught hold of Shaftoe’s wrist and tugged his hand away; getting his shoulder under Shaftoe’s bent knee and pressing it back. Shaftoe, surprisingly flexible, grabbed a handful of Jack’s hair and pulled him down into a kiss, heel sharp against Jack’s back, pushing in a suggestive sort of way. He thumbed at one of Shaftoe’s nipples just to see Shaftoe twitch and grinned against his mouth.

He pushed the head of his cock into Shaftoe and licked at the rough skin under Shaftoe’s jaw. Shaftoe canted his hips up and hissed out a breath as Jack slid deeper into him. Considering that only a few days ago he had been sure he would die in a Spanish prison, Jack could only thank his lucky stars and whatever crazed god was watching out for him. He fucked into Shaftoe in sharp, short motions and Shaftoe made a sound like he lost his breath each time.

“Harder,” Shaftoe demanded, digging his bony heel into Jack’s shoulder. “Do it harder.”

Jack obliged, the slick drag of Shaftoe’s body around him hot and perfect and Shaftoe was shoving back against him, swearing. Under him, Shaftoe was fierce and demanding, and Jack bared his teeth at him in a helpless grin and clutched at the blanket next to Shaftoe's head, the other hand braced against the corner post of the bunk so he could dig his feet and heels into the mattress.

“Oh, hell,” Shaftoe said. “I’ve been thinking about this, been thinking about you, for days.” Shaftoe used his grip on Jack’s hair to pull him down into another sloppy kiss, clutched at his shoulder, and came.

Jack’s body jerked forwards, bowed over Shaftoe and he shuddered out his orgasm. “You’re so bloody contrary,” he said, wondering if he moved at all, if he would just collapse on top of Shaftoe. “I can’t keep up.”

Shaftoe wiggled around until his leg was back on the bed, hip popping as he did so, and Jack’s softening cock slid out of him. Jack flopped down next to Shaftoe, one arm slung over his waist. 

“I’m not contrary,” Shaftoe said, contrarily and brought one big hand down on Jack’s arse in a slap. “Anyway, you have a ship to run.” He sat up, shoving his hair out of his face and puttered around the cabin for a moment, cleaning himself up. Jack decided he had to do no such thing, and stayed where he was, face pressed into his pillow until Shaftoe smacked him again. “C’mon,” Shaftoe said. “I’ll race you to the top of the mainmast.”

Jack turned his head enough that he could see Shaftoe, back in those too-tight breeches, chest bare and still flushed from fucking. He groaned and looked away, waving a hand. “Anon, Mr. Shaftoe,” Jack mumbled into the pillow, and laughing, Shaftoe left him.

It didn’t take long for Jack to rouse himself, drag himself out of his bunk, and get dressed again. When he came out on deck Shaftoe was standing by the capstan, talking to Moseh. He waved Jack over, a bright smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he said, “listen to this.”

Moseh adjusted his yarmulke. "I have a Plan," he said.

Shaftoe nodded enthusiastically. "He had to explain it twice," he said, "and it still sounds crazy, but I'm for it."

Jack glanced at Shaftoe. "A Plan?" he said, suspiciously. "And here's me thinking we'll just go and fritter away the monies we've just managed to steal."

Moseh waved an unconcerned hand. "After that," he said. "It is a simple Plan."

Jack, back aboard the Pearl, with his crew around him, and Shaftoe leaning against the capstan, strong and mad, and his for the moment really couldn't see the harm in at least hearing what Moseh had to say. "Alright," he said. "What is it?"

 

End.


End file.
